


Secret Keeper

by Act_Naturally



Series: The Potter of Thedas [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4498314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Act_Naturally/pseuds/Act_Naturally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Hope's Calling. For Harry, things were looking up. He owned most of his freedom, he knew how to orchestrate a good time, he had at least one functioning relationship at any given time. It was all more or less under control. Several explosions later, Harry never thought he'd long for a time when his issues were as simple as some idiot blowing a hole in reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't panic

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to Hope’s Calling. For new guys, I suggest you read the prequel. This can be read alone but some parts might be a little jarring, since I broke cannon. Events and decisions back then spiral off track and a bit out of control, so if you don’t want to read 70 000 words, PM me and I’ll send you a summary.  
> But go back and read the last two or three chapters anyway: the epilogue is basically an intro to this story, and last battle is the most fun.  
> If you understand the consequences of a sticking charm to a dragon’s arse, you are ready to proceed.  
> Warnings: coarse language, violence (naturally).

An archway spanned from one side for the room to the other and opened an entire wall of the quarters to the wider world. A slight breeze barely stirred the heavy curtains. Light stretched far into the room, steadily gaining more ground against the shadows with every moment. The timber lit with an orange glow.

There was a certain polite lavishness in the plain design, a subtle elegance that could not be overlooked. The wood and stone walls were polished to the highest degree. A carved vanity, a cluttered desk, and large chest were placed to one side. A plant flourished on the balcony.

The centre featured a bed that was far larger than any one person needed. Silk sheets rumpled under the weight of a young man. He dozed there looking far less guilty than he perhaps should have; papers lay across his chest, promising a nasty workload and now a tighter time frame.

The layout wasn't the most traditionally Tevinter, but neither was its resident. It was no secret that Harry Potter, of no lineage and no land, had wandered in one day nearly seven years ago and swept the Magisterium's expectations out from under their upturned noses.

Soon enough, the light stretched far enough across the floor to settle on the bed. Harry woke blinking and squinting. Papers scattered as he levered himself upright but, quite unexpectedly, their momentum was arrested and they floated onto a neat pile on the desk.

Harry ignored the papers. Probably too pointedly. Beside them was a gift, presumably from – was it Marcia? Medea? Definitely M-something. Harry perked up a bit upon seeing the oranges. The fruit was hard to come by.

He snagged the bowl with barely a thought and it trailed after him, finally coming to rest on the balcony ledge. He settled his weight on the stone and yawned. A portion of the Carastes Circle was visible and, towards the horizon, the buildings conceded to green fields and even more distant mountains.

Tevinter was strange, he thought fondly, dropping the orange skins on the apprentices studying in the Circle gardens below. He laughed when a girl managed to incinerate a bit in mid-air and wound up with a face full of ash. Harry had never been in a place quite like it. There had  _always_  been a layer of secrecy surrounding magic; sometimes it had to be kept from those who didn't know, other times it was a defect to be ashamed of no matter  _what_  social circles you frequented. It was a given – the sky was blue, and magic was taboo.

But here was an entire culture built on open practice, a mixture of magic and science. Daring and curiosity was unstifled – surely a formula for great things, if there ever was one. That alone made the country an amazing place.

One day, Harry thought, it might even be a nice one.

It was hard to see from the perspective of a human lifetime, but culture shifted, and the wizard liked where this one was headed. The possibilities were mesmerising, there was so much potential. For good or bad, he supposed.

Speaking of bad… the paperwork beckoned, promising to fill the rest of his day with tedious and unfulfilling labour. After polishing off the orange he relented, heading over to his desk at last.

The world flashed white for a moment, a light for the south outshining the westerly sun. Harry shouted, startled, and blinked furiously to clear the spots from his vision.

The golden glow on the timber turned a poisonous green.

"What the…" Frowning over his shoulder, Harry ducked back out onto the balcony and for the first time in recent years, he was both surprised and alarmed. Low on the horizon, a green pulse shot outwards, filtering light down through the clouds. It was only tantamount to a great distance that it had not reached them yet.

Ahead of the pulse, a near-invisible distortion approached; the shockwave from what must've been one hell of an explosion. The bubble of compressed air raced outwards, escorting a gust that landed like a blow, but with no more noise than a hiss from the breeze.

Harry's ears popped as his magic sprung to shelter him.

Glass cracked. A child screamed.

Harry sighed. "And it was shaping up to be such a nice afternoon, too."


	2. Grin and bear it

“Sirius Black,” Harry called loudly, tapping the mirror’s reflective surface impatiently. “Sirius, don’t make me hunt you down.”

Harry’s ears picked up a faint crash as his reflection began to blur and distort. The image changed to reflect a different face.

“-ah, bollocks. Harry!” Sirius ran a hand through his hair, inadvertently smudging what appeared to be black soot into it. The dark flakes fell like snow all around him, settling on his head and shoulders. Harry’s suspicion and concern rose as the other man continued breathlessly, “Things just got a little crazy.”

“I gathered as much,” Harry interjected swiftly, “Whatever happened down there, we felt it in _Tevinter_. Are you guys alright?”

“Just shaken. But as for the world… it’s fucked. Someone blew up the Conclave and tore a hole in reality. It’s getting bigger.”

“ _What?!”_ squawked Harry, “Anders–”

Harry was pinned by uncharacteristically serious grey eyes. His racing heart stuttered, and he took the time to really look at his godfather. Sirius’ face was drawn; restless and cagey like the predator he was. He looked haunted in a way he hadn’t been for years.

“The entire mountaintop was levelled in the blast. A Fade rift just sucked half the debris through. Harry, nothing could have survived that…”

The blood made itself known in his ears again.

“No, that’s not right,” Harry’s mind clamped over that possibility. Whether through fear or certainty, he refused to believe it, “Nothing tripped my wards, he must be fine.”

Sirius looked like he wanted to believe him, but had seen too much to put stock in luck, “I’ve got to go,” he said at last, “People are making their way up from Haven and the demons getting over the shock.”

At that point, Harry recalled that the world had flipped its shit, that there was a rip in the sky, demons, and; “You’re _there_? Get out, you idiot, are you trying to get killed?”

Sirius barked hysterically. “Who would?” the mirror spun and Harry saw burning stone, the horrible green of the sky, some misshapen figures moving listlessly in the distance. Baked into the wall behind Sirius was a burnt husk that might’ve once been a body.

It looked like a post nuclear hell. “There’s no one around to kill me,” Sirius muttered miserably.

Harry blinked away the numbness. “Claudia,” he reminded firmly.

Sirius’ eyes widened. “Good point.”

Harry let the mirror fall to the bed and he collapsed forward, shaking. He spared a moment to get his breathing under control, to hope that his godfather made it home without encountering the cause of this latest catastrophe, or anyone else who would draw seemingly obvious conclusions.

He gave it up as a bad job.

Action. That was what he needed.

Harry rose purposefully and… nothing. He could not think of a single thing that was both engaging to the point of distraction and important enough to provide a sense of progress in the wake of this catastrophe.

Certainly not his neglected paperwork.

He paced the well-worn route across the room, interrupting it on occasion to view the lingering green with concern.

To see and feel an explosion from _Ferelden_ … that was a ridiculous distance for energy to cover, the power at the source must’ve been phenomenal. And yet it was crude. Terribly inefficient. It had the potential to achieve acres of destruction, but most of it had been channelled up into the atmosphere.

Such an explosion would’ve been laudable on Earth, even with their grasp of fusion weaponry, but on _Thedas_? The highest form of natural explosive was _black powder_. Harry discounted accidents and the Qunari immediately. The orchestrator was either inexperienced, or their intent was not wanton destruction.  

So. Magic. Or magic and an agenda. The worst combination, in his experience. He dreaded it, but dread didn’t account for how his heart quickened and his breaths shortened. It wasn’t fear. Not quite.

He had never managed to escape chaos entirely, he realised. If he were honest, most of the time he didn’t really want to. Harry still lived to get a step ahead, for the chance to be the one riding the chaos instead of being strung along by the undertow.

Perhaps this time…

The world had turned already, Harry was certain. The issue was large enough for the Magisterium to sit up and take interest. They would ask questions and expect answers. Summons would reach him as soon as they delegated the task to the appropriate minion.

It was inevitable.

The lid of his chest was flung opened and essential belongings poured in from around the room; fine robes and armour, mirrors and potions flew through the air and were crammed into an amount of space that didn’t make sense, exactly, whilst the chest itself shrunk in size. Harry was up and walking, and by the time he reached it, the chest was small enough for him to scoop up and place in a pocket.

The papers and mementos and books lay forgotten. The door locked behind him as he strode down the hall.

It was a promising start. Pity he didn’t get very far.

“Harry!” a high voice called.

He turned to see a beautiful woman. Harry vaguely remembered making arrangements for a second date in between the dancing and the attempt on his life at the Wintersend festivities.

Considering those activities had been unrelated, for once, Harry wasn’t averse to the idea.

“I’m sorry, Medea, I’ll see you later,” he sighed regretfully. Some things must come first.

“That’s not – _Who’s Medea_?”

Not-Medea’s simpering charm sizzled over into anger.

“I’m, ah- just going. Potentially world ending event, must be off,” and he decisively did not hightail it out of there. She wouldn’t dare throw a fireball in the Circle corridors. Surely. Still, he… hastened. As is only prudent when one is in the midst of a global disaster.

Merlin, he envied people with long legs.

Harry, remarkably, reached the end of the hall without the aid of a shield charm and burst into his patron’s office without preamble.

Magister Tavius didn’t even look up from his work as he calmly said, as if the Fade wasn’t falling into the world right that instant, “I suppose you’re off, then?”

“With your leave,” Harry tipped his head politely because it was easier to operate under permission, but they both knew that the lack of it wouldn’t stop him. Harry was indentured to the magister, yes, but if Tavius wanted to maintain that illusion of control and enjoy the public status, he was best just going along with it.

The magister dithered, running gnarled fingers over his long beard as if there was any doubt in his mind. “Granted.”

Harry turned away, the hasty arguments he’d prepared falling away, but after a moment he paused.

“You know that girl I’m seeing?”

“Yes, Potter.”

“What’s her name?”

The ancient magister did look up then, just to display his disbelief in ways that his tone couldn’t capture alone. “Julia.”

“Thanks!” Harry smiled sheepishly and left, nodding to himself. Medea must’ve been the nice brunette he’d been with last month.

The tight press of apparition closed around him and Harry had a sinking feeling that there would be time for no idle dalliances, nice or otherwise, in the coming weeks.

Harry appeared in the lobby of the Imperial Senate building. The high, carved ceiling swam into view before he managed to centre himself and focus on the unimpressed attendant before him.

Harry had no patience for the man’s feelings, rude though it may have been to exhibit the fragility of state security. Besides, he hadn’t aimed right for the Senate Chamber. They should be pleased.

“Are they in session?” Harry asked.

“Yes, Enchanter Potter. The Magisterium has requested council at your earlier convenience.” The attendant turned to the imposing doors and dropped the magical barrier theatrically. Harry didn’t blame him. If his only purpose was to open a door, he’d do it with style.

The Senate was stunning. Like most buildings in the heart of Minrathous, it had been built in the golden age of the Imperium and carefully preserved. High ceilings led to arches that hinted at towering spires. The stone was polished to an astonishing degree, and murals covered the walls. Everything, from the scenes in the tapestries to the dwarven hinges in the doors, served as a constant reminder of the Imperium’s former glory, the dream that most were still chasing.

And the chasers… ah, yes, he could hear them shouting now. The attendant bowed deeply and left, letting Harry continue alone. He took a breath, smoothed his hair. Probably should have combed that.

It wasn’t the first time he’d presented before the Senate on matters such as these, but it was nerve-wracking in a way that got his blood pumping every time. In the end it didn’t matter whether it was from unease or the thrill; revealing either would be a mistake.

Harry’s eyes flickered over those assembled. He didn’t see faces, only carefully controlled masks. Magisters didn’t equip them quite like their Orlesian counterparts, but they wore them nonetheless.

As he’d expected, the local magisters had assembled promptly - Harry even spotted members of the Publicanium - but the rows were mostly bare. Doubtlessly, missives had already been sent and the remaining magisters would flock in from all ends of the country in the days to come.

Harry stopped in the centre floor and bowed, his eyes on the most dangerous person in the room. Archon Radonis cut an intimidating figure in elaborate ceremonial guard and strong features. The Archon did not leave him waiting, as the nasty bastard was prone to do, which if anything was a testament to how serious they were taking the problem.

“Enchanter Potter,” his was a voice that commanded respect. “I trust you have been made aware of the development.”

“Indeed, your Imperial Majesty,” the formal language of the Imperium, so similar to Latin, rolled easily off his tongue, “I can report that the effects felt earlier were a result of the explosion of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.” Murmuring greeted his news. Harry discerned unease and reluctant awe. “The green glow that can be seen, my lords, is an expanding Fade rift above the Temple. I suspect the events are related, however the cause and impact remain uncertain.”

The Archon dismissed him with a gesture and Harry found his seat among the advisors, slightly apart from the Magisterium and the Publicanium houses.

Magister Alexius scowled thoughtfully, though that was nothing unusual, “I believe that was the location of the Conclave?”

“It rather appears that negations failed,” another magister, perhaps Erimond, remarked.

The debate raged on for hours. They didn’t discuss anything of importance, mainly just affirming what they knew (not much), what failings of the southern system were liable (the especially barbaric ones), and who would be blamed (Tevinter, obviously). The answers were useless, but they weren’t the aim.

In this unprecedented situation, they were wary of proceeding before they got a feel for everyone’s position. Who was informed, who was more invested in this development, et cetera. Whether they would respond to danger and/or take advantage of the situation had to be established soon, of course, but there was little point revealing their cards until more representatives arrived. Until then, it was imperative to spend as much time around the Magisterium as possible. The most successful and intuitive would keep up, the rest were figuratively, maybe literally, dead.

Such were politics in Tevinter.

Harry held no love or aspiration for political esteem. Technically, he wasn’t even supposed to have an opinion; as a foreigner he was a reflection of his patron’s every wish and opinion, and he was expected to act as such. But his case was a unique one. Harry commanded great knowledge and power in his own right, and the Magisterium knew it. They respected power.

There was no escaping it, but that did not bother Harry as much as it once might’ve. An event of this magnitude had the potential to affect all of Thedas, and there were not many people he trusted to handle that sort of thing properly.

So Harry listened and he watched. He filtered every useless non-answer for the agenda behind it and when the Senate disbanded for the night and the real politics began over the evening meal, Harry was there.

The pie was delicious and it wasn’t even poisoned.

…

“Troubling turn of events, isn’t it?”

Harry lowered the glass from his lips, turning his body slightly to better face a man he was not personally familiar with. “I do not believe we have met. I am Harry Potter, of the Carastes Circle,” he greeted with a small smile.

The man was young for a magister, all smooth plains of skin and not a hint of grey to be seen in his dark hair. He dipped his head with a charming grin, “Irian, Head of House Amladaris.”

“The pleasure is mine, Magister Amladaris.” Pleasantries satisfied, Harry could answer; “Of course, any event of this magnitude should not be taken lightly.”

He waited for Amladaris to give away the purpose of this visit. Rumour had it, he wasn’t a man to do anything lightly. But the magister was circumventing the topic now, Harry suspected, just to be irritating.

Harry spotted an opening which wouldn’t result in social slaughter, and put a halt to the small talk. “I couldn’t help but notice your strong opinions on the topic,” he prompted. Amladaris hadn’t exactly shouted about it, but his voice carried in the relative silence of the Magisterium. To express any opinion at this time was unusually bold, and the magister was too intelligent for it to be purely accidental.

Harry was curious.

Amladaris chuckled. “I suppose you would know. You’ve not exactly held back with your reports. Your caution is quite clear. If I were to hazard a guess, I believe I would find where your opinions fall.”

Harry wrestled down his natural violent reaction. Politicians. Forever incapable of answering questions.

“It is my duty to explain the situation. When it’s dangerous, I present it as such.”

“And I acknowledge the truth.”

And that is how alliances are established in Tevinter.

…

An elf walked out of the Fade near Haven – a feat that knocked her out for three days. On the first day, she was declared guilty of the explosion and taken prisoner. On the third, she woke up and controlled the Breach enough to stop it swallowing all of Thedas in the near future. That evening, she was declared the Herald of Andraste whether she liked it or not, and adopted as a mascot of the second Inquisition; the organisation run by the Divine’s closest confidants but disavowed by the Chantry.

Harry honestly didn’t know whether Sirius was just messing with him, now.

As his brain digested, Harry remembered his vow to learn from last time. He responded with the appropriate suspicion and concern, “Where are you?”

“Further down the mountain, below Haven. That town is bursting with a small army of the devout, and some angry clerics. Weird. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to tell you I spoke with Anders. Neither he or Amell were at the Conclave.” Harry sagged in relief, the horrible weight of the unknown cast off his shoulders.

“Why? That’s all they’ve been talking about for months.”

Sirius shrugged. “He didn’t say. You don’t think she had anything to do with the explosion…”

Harry paused. He couldn’t deny the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all. He shook it off. “Don’t speculate. They’ve got enough problems as it is.” Anders in particular. Harry’s heart panged in sympathy for the hearty dose of survivors guilt his friend was sure to be feeling.

“Where are they now?”

“Solona is in the wind. They’ll be out for her blood, guilty or not. But Anders is still in Haven. Said something about too many injuries.”

“Gutsy idiot,” Harry smiled fondly. The image faded until his expression was staring back at him. With a grimace, Harry tossed the mirror aside and took up pacing.

The Breach had been stable for days; long enough that it looked to remain as such. Of course, with the immediate danger mitigated, the Magisterium absolved all responsibility and decided it was not their problem.

Yes, that was the official stance.

Unofficially, it was a different story.

Magisters clung to their past glory like it was a promise of the future. To many, this was their chance to hasten that reality. The Senate was a deadlock between the extreme and the apathetic; those who outright supported the chaos in the south and those that just didn’t mind if it weakened the place.

The turmoil made for ripe pickings. Harry preferred it when the world was in danger of imploding.

A knock.

Merlin, he’d rather _not_. He sighed, “Enter.”

A sprite of an elf slipped in, looking terribly nervous. Bad news, undoubtedly. Harry made an effort to smile kindly.

“Enchanter, an unstable tear has opened in the east quarter of Qarinus,” he delivered with a practiced bow.

Five more minutes. Was five minutes of peace asking for too much? “I’ll leave immediately.”

The demons had been a distant problem, but one of the most densely populated cities was a far cry from a remote part of the countryside, unlike the first rift that had come to their attention.

He apparated with a healthy amount of trepidation, but Qarinus wasn’t the chaotic mess he’d been expecting. The streets were crowded with people going purposefully about their business, not a single dead body or demon to be seen.

And then he heard the screaming.

In the mouth of an alley lay the burnt, frozen, disfigured remains of a few unlucky people. The alley was a terribly place for a fight. It was barely wide enough to swing a staff, let alone dodge a gangly demon.

Lined around the area, staffs ready, were several local mages. Troops also patrolled the rooftops, looking down on the scene.

A mage, identifiable as a military commander by his robes and bearing, inclined his head as Harry neared. His stance loosened in what Harry supposed might be relief.

Before he could get too comfortable, the rift swelled and hell broke loose. A dark form coalesced, but before it was even fully distinguishable the mages snapped to attention and rained fire down on it. The sound of burning mixed with its screams.

Harry had seen other rifts, many years ago now, but none had been quite like this. Normal rifts tended to make the area feel uncomfortable, or at worse the dead were more active than was natural. They hadn’t been like this demon pumping machine.

The distortion in space crackled and hissed, whispers from the Fade leaking through. It lit every corner with that unearthly glow, but somehow the edges of the area seemed to stretch into shadows.

Harry frowned. That was very Not Good. “Is the danger contained, at least?”

“Far from it,” the commander admitted, “The rift spits demons out into the adjacent buildings.”

So _that’s_ why there were demons skipping across the rooftops. Huh. Concerning. “How long has it been open?”

“An hour, at least.”

That did not alleviate his fears. The mages guarding the alley were running low on energy and the rift showed no signs of slowing down. Would it ever? Harry wouldn’t hold his breath.

Hours of thinking, questioning and poking established only the fact that they were clueless. There was nothing in the history of the area, the ambient magic, or the phase of the bloody moon that differentiated the alley from any other.

With only a data sample of one, Harry had to conclude that the event was random, that the rifts could appear anywhere, anytime.

He would’ve preferred a trigger. Triggers allowed pre-emptive measures. Instead it appeared that the entire world was a time bomb without convenient disarmament.

The demons just did not _stop_. Killing them brought respite and seemed to weaken the tear, but they had no way to hold it – or affect it at all, even. It just gathered strength until more demons could press through.

“Sonuvabitch!” the last terror demon got a little too close for comfort.

Harry’s magic lashed out in response, smashing the demon into the dirt until it looked more mineral than creature. His fellow mages seemed to be considering whether putting distance between them would be taken as an insult.

One mumbled something about demon guts, lifted his robes and shuffled away. The others capitalised on this excuse.

He prowled the area for what felt like the hundredth time. The foreign magic lashed out like it had a life of its own, green and sick and strong. Brick melted under its barrage.

Physics was breaking and the area certainly didn’t feel stable, but for the life of him, Harry didn’t know what to do about it.

It was a maddening riddle. There was nothing to banish, transform, or blast. Firing spells at it invoked no response.

Traditional methods were useless. There had been cause to strengthen the Veil in Tevinter before. Over the years such magic had been sharpened into an art, as necessary in a nation with a flippant view on blood magic.

Strengthening the Veil around the rifts would not close them because the Veil was not weak; it was compromised and, as Harry was coming to realise, that was very different. He didn’t know how precisely, but he suspected that would go a long way to solving their problems. If only he knew where to begin.

All energy came from a source, there must be something holding the tear open – he could work with that; energy could be drained, could be moved on. Attempt after theory after prayer failed to pin down the source: for all practical purposes, there was none. At least not on _this_ side.

There was a nagging voice in the back of his mind banging all sorts of alarms, pointing to the inkling that the rift didn’t act like it should. It showed no sign of running off a finite supply. If anything, Harry suspected that open was the default state, the path of least resistance and… no, that didn’t bare thinking about. There _must_ be a way, he refused to believe the balance between physics and magic had been tipped beyond recovery.

Merlin, the consequences for the integrity of the Veil alone…! He was too young to witness the end of the world.

At the very thought, Harry enlisted the help of his least favourite mages in society. Blood magic was a useless as any other; the demons those mages consulted were stressed and could provide no answers.

At a loss, Harry set aside the rift and tried to compartmentalise the problem, so to speak. That didn’t work either.

He scowled when a spike of green hit his wards and shredded them with ease. In the backlash, the barrier collapsed and doused them all – mages and demons alike – in pudding.

Harry sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead. It mixed with the melted icing dripping down his collar, he noted with a grimace. It was far too hot for this kind of exertion.

It stung to admit defeat. “I can do no more for now, set up a rota,” he ordered.

Things just got serious. His mind sang for a long, cool bath. His body yearned for bed. Horrible temptations. He apparated straight into the library.

Merlin, he hoped there was prior research, anything in this field that he could build upon. Really, he’d take a _definition_ at this point and consider it progress.

He only put a stop to things when he began seeing doubles of the inadequate information.

Harry fell into bed fully clothed.


	3. Consult help

Incessant knocking descended on the door, dragging Harry kicking and screaming from blissful unconsciousness.

He couldn’t muster up the will for a silencing charm. His magic curled lazily around him, a fog over his awareness and body; tensed muscles turned to butter in the relaxing cocoon. He burrowed deeper into the sheets.

Blackness settled in deeper, awareness turned inward. What had he been dreaming about? It was good, let’s get back to that…

“Potter,” a finger dug into his back.

Harry would’ve hissed at Amladaris, but that sounded exhausting. “Go _away_.” His voice naturally fell into an unflattering rumble at that hour. He pronounced the words with a notable level of doom. The effect was pleasing.

The other voice scoffed lightly. “Call me Irian. Especially when I’m in your bedroom at this time in the morning.”

“Funny,” Harry drawled. His limbs felt heavy, like they’d be more use in water than on land. He calculated the smallest number of moves required to turn to glare at the magister, and came up with an answer too large to bother with. “Not endearing you to me.”

“Politics never rests!” he went for the blankets. Harry shivered at the sudden cold.

He hated morning people.

“Urk!” An aborted squawk reached him and Harry grinned into his pillow.

Fabric moved over itself with a hiss. There was a crash, several thumps (he hoped they heralded bruises), and the distinct noise of something heavy being dragged. Through it all, the sounds of an indignant, struggling magister were music to his ears.

“I’ll burn it, Potter. Don’t imagine I won’t!”

He finally raised his head to level Amladaris with as much derision as he could muster. Doubtlessly, he wound up looking a bit dopy, but that was fine; _he_ wasn’t the one in the process of being stowed under the desk by a predatory, vengeful linen.

The threat didn’t phase Harry; the servants would replace the sheets, and there may be some raised eyebrows at the destruction, but; “I’ll say a beautiful woman did it, out of her mind with pleasure.”

He yawned. Stretched. Amladaris cursed. There was a ripping sound, Harry looked over curiously.

A good quarter of the blanket was shredded beyond repair and the magister sat in the middle, arms still bound, eyes alight with satisfaction. Until the strips went for his face. They went up in a puff of smoke, but their vengeful ashes continued on course.

The cursing resumed.

Harry grimaced, looking down. Old, demon-stained robes. Ew. “Don’t mind me, I’ll be ready in a moment. Kindly avert your eyes.”

Smack. The magister was sent tumbling in the other direction, dragged up against the wall.

Harry began the daily struggle against Tevinter fashion. Too many buckles and pieces, it was all far too complicated. It almost required a degree to get out of it.

He hated used cleaning charms on his skin. Alas, if he didn’t have time to sleep in, he didn’t have time to bathe. On principle.

Harry wandered over to his chest. We wouldn’t use the nice blue robes, no, he’d learnt his lesson. The cut of the dark brown set was a little less suitable for the magisterium, but far more practical and forgiving of movement.

Roar. That could have been a flash fire or a small bear.

Merlin, if they were hard to get out of, going through the process in reverse was even _more_ difficult.

Suspicious silence. Then; “Not bad, Potter.”

Amladaris lay, casually as you please, in the charred ruins of Harry’s bed. Harry rolled his eyes – that was just petty.

Harry folded the material over his chest, reached over his back for the leather strap and – no, wrong one. “Here I thought you were married,” he muttered distractedly. Why was his collar sitting like that? Of course, it was sideways. He backtracked several steps to straighten it. It was too early for this.

“Wife and daughter,” the magister confirmed.

“Ah,” Harry realised. Contract fulfilled, freedom regained. So Harry wasn’t imagining the flirting. He paused, buckle forgotten, speculative.

Marriage worked differently outside the Southern Chantry; such a political union was a contract aimed at establishing the line of inheritance for the required offspring. Once that had been taken care of, there usually wasn’t much else holding monogamy together. Romance was rare and remarkable (and thus why so many couples tried to fake it), but a good scandal just made life more interesting (for everyone else, hence the down-low).

It was at once constricting and oddly liberal.

Irian was taller than Harry, tanned, his body soft from a life of pleasure and comfy chairs. He fell on the fairly good looking side. Despite the recent linen skirmish, he didn’t look the slightest bit ruffled, and now that Harry knew that taunting slouch was purposeful, he could see the magister appreciated Harry’s fitter form. That was flattering.

Harry liked sex. Casual sex, specifically. But a dalliance with the wrong person in this stirred hornets’ nest would be dangerous for one’s health, feelings and political agenda. It was precisely why he’d ignored his libido since the mess started. Manipulative and political was not his type.

Amladaris was his ally, probably, but everyone had an agenda. Whether that agenda was pleasure or something more bothersome, Harry didn’t yet know.

So Harry neither accepted nor turned down the offer, but if he stretched a little more than necessary to get that last strap in place, well, Amladaris looked just a tad uncomfortable and anyone who cut into Harry’s sleep deserved as much turnabout as he could feasibly arrange.

Irian blinked his way to something like a recovery when the skin vanished, and jumped up with a smile, “Come on, then. I found a reference to Veil composition that I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”

Stupid, perky morning people.

…

The smaller rifts brought the immediate consequences of the Breach closer to home. When the demon pumping fissures promised to be unstoppable, the Senate was reinvigorated. The consequent inflation of tension and homicidal urges, at the very least, helped Harry identify his allies and his enemies. Just those, mind you; there were no friends here.

On the surface of things, there was only a lot of shouting. Most magisters still contended whether closing the demon dumping crack in reality should be on the agenda at all. Old grudges resurfaced, along with every slight ever traded, and, more often, invented on the spot. The escalation had an inevitable flow on effect, until assassination attempts were merely how one formally acknowledged disagreements.

The calls to action got more elaborate and ridiculous with each passing day; foreign policy became a pissing contest; invasion plans were thrown out left, right and centre. Some aimed for prosperity, or to spite their fellow magisters, others seemed to feel it was their duty to fill the quota of stupid for the world.

Hence Harry’s homicidal urges.

Politicians. Honestly. Children, the lot of them.

Thankfully, the bulk of the magisterium was self-interested enough to know that investing in another war on top of the effort against the Qunari was a bad idea from a financial and social standpoint, if not a moral one.

Invasion did not look imminent, most days, and Harry would’ve chalked that up as a success, only he hadn’t exactly recruited multitudes behind the idea of supporting the Inquisition, either. And of his allies, only Amladaris had any real sway.

Irian, currently, stroked the angle of his jaw, a dark look on his face. “Erimond knows too much.”

Harry agreed. “He certainly looks gleeful considering he soundly lost the bid for action against Nevarra.”

He grimaced at the reminder. The previous day had been a nightmare on his nerves and patience. Nevarra was the front, but Par Vollen, Orlais- the idiots permeating the Senate weren’t fussy. They argued this was an opportunity, not a problem.

It was troubling that they were thinking this way. Many were influential; Harry feared their arguments might gather acclaim in time.

So that’d been fun. And then, yeah, demons. Good times.

The moment was never perfect, but Pavus and Prycis were winding up yet another argument on the merits of supplying both the rebel mages and Templars in their efforts against each other, because some people endorsed discord and the suffering of innocents for breakfast. Something had to be done. Harry didn’t think he could sit through another rendition of that in good faith.

“My lords,” Harry interrupted, “The rifts are the danger we must focus on. To our best knowledge they are unpredictable, unpreventable – Minrathous could very well be next.”

Magister Prycis sniffed at the interruption. “Might I remind you that _you_ were tasked with closing them?”

“I was tasked with finding a solution and I have reported my findings,” Harry agreed calmly, “They will not close as rifts have in the past.”

Harry raised his voice over Prycis’ noisy disagreement, and the several other proud magisters who prickled at the insinuation. “You may not like what I say but I pray you heed it. You could find another man, who will give another verdict. Search for someone ignorant. Wilfully blind. But the best minds in Tevinter sit over this problem today, and I can promise you that they will not find a solution anytime soon.”

It was too early to be certain, Harry only had impressions to work off, a mistake here would decimate his reputation. But he needed this point _now_.

“If we establish ourselves as their enemy, Tevinter will fall. They will not conquer us, no, the Inquisition will let us succumb to an unending tide of demons.”

“That organisation has no weight,” Gallus protested with a negligent wave.

Amladaris stepped in, “Irrelevant. The Inquisition acts through the one person who can close the rifts. We can contain three, four, maybe a hundred small rifts, but at some point we will run out of naughty apprentices to put to use. And then we will run out of plain soldiers. And then we will run out of enchanters. And first enchanters. And magisters. What then? With our army drawn back home, what lands do you imagine you will conquer? We will fail even to keep the Qunari at bay.”

Harry resisted the urge to pat his ally on the back, “We cannot exacerbate the strife in the south because the Inquisition is fighting it, and we cannot afford to alienate the Inquisition until we have a solution ourselves.”

Uproar. Bloody politicians. Dousing them in logic was like spitting on their mothers.

“Well, we got their attention,” Amladaris said under the cover of the surrounding noise, with the air of a man making a mental note to increase his personal security.

Harry blocked out the squalling and feared their efforts would not be enough. “They want this too much. We are fighting their ambition and pride.”

“That will wear down,” the magister replied confidently.

Harry admired his optimism.

…

“What’s more, the Inquisition brought down both sides of the rebel war and now enforces a tenuous peace in the Hinterlands. If that is the length they will go to, just to secure safe passage for their horses, I look forward to seeing what they will do next,” Amladaris chuckled.

Harry long ago concluded that he didn’t want to know how Irian came across such information. So he paused, looking over the gardens thoughtfully, “That is good.” His eyes stopped on an attractive woman and Harry had to shake himself back into focus, cursing his hormones. Some days he missed the time when such teenage bodily weirdness had taken backseat to his insanity.

He cleared his throat, “Yes, it will be easier to argue that the Inquisition can solve our problems now that they actually _are_ solving problems.”

“It will do nothing to convince the Magisterium that the Inquisition will be willing to help, however.”

Harry frowned. Sirius said the Inquisition had clear goals - good, helpful ones, even. He’d like to think they wouldn’t put that aside just to stick it to the Imperium. That said, people were an unpredictable, petty lot, and Harry wouldn’t put anything past them entirely. “The Inquisition should be above borders.”

“In an ideal world they would be,” Irian agreed. “But they are still a small organisation, and it hasn’t helped that the Orlesian Chantry has revoked them. Regardless, they are progressing well enough. Cheer up, Potter, we may sway more minds yet.”

He gave a warm smile that Harry didn’t quite believe.

…

Harry’s bed had been replaced. Even a week after the burning incident, it still amused him to imagine the gossip circling the servantile class. He was reminded of them now, and the delicate unrealized power they held.

Letters had been left between the sheets for him to find. He flipped through them, considering and dismissing candidates for the sender. There weren’t many who had the clout to organise such a thing, and the awareness to see the covert organisation under their noses, let alone the goodwill of the slaves.

His curiosity perked up tentatively.

Threats and bribes were never conveyed in something as permanent as writing, and those were the sum total of his entertainment these days, so at first he couldn’t imagine anything interesting could be contained in the yellowed pages.

But a dwarven seal caught his eye, and propelled his brows toward his hairline. Now _that_ was unexpected.

_Harry Potter,_

_As I’m sure you know, the world has a small problem on its collective hands. The Breach, the Divine’s death, and several poor life decisions have had a pretty big effect on things around here. People are looking for the cause and a solution._

_That brings things around to you. See, our one and only Sister Nightingale had a few things to say about you (most of them glowing praises, rest assured), and she managed to track down several interesting diaries. Anders vouched for you and Leliana vouches for no-one but she likes you and that’s as good as a personal letter of recommendation from the Maker in these parts._

_So, world travelling immortal wizard, Master of Death, he-of-unique-titles… consider this a request for your expertise, a plea for help, or whatever tickles your altrusic side. I’m sure we can negotiate and respond accordingly._

_Basically we’d feel better with you on board. Anything you can tell us about this Breach would be much appreciated._

_Regards,_

_Varric Tethras_

_On behalf of the Inquisition_

There was a second message and he didn’t have high hopes for it, but he noted the handwriting and found himself smiling before he was even aware his cheeks had moved.

That changed soon enough.

_Harry,_

_They’ve decided you’re a candidate for Worst Megalomaniac of the Ages. I’ve told them they’re idiots but at times they can be very good at that. They know where you are, who you are and what we did during the Blight, and they’re not keen on the idea._

_To be clear, they aren’t saying you did blow up the Conclave, just that you could have, and the list of people who could have only has one name on it._

_Being scared has made them stupid, don’t hold it against them please._

_Their first aim is to close the Breach, not lay blame. The Herald has a gift for common sense and pointed out that whether or not you’re guilty, you could have the key to solving this mess, and your past actions indicate you might be persuaded to actively help us close it. I can promise that they’re sincere, they will accept help somewhat gracefully, and it isn’t an ambush._

_I am working with them. Entirely on my own will. Really. Don’t come charging in, that will not be taken with a grain of salt. They’re good people and their purpose is honest, but they won’t admit that we’re out of our depth, and someone has to._

_Even if we can clean up the mess, there is still someone behind it; we have no idea who it could be and we can’t divert resources to find out. The Inquisition must focus on damage control before it goes to shit entirely._

_I hope you will forgive me for asking this of you; we need your help. Please, send word._

_Your friend,_

_Anders_

Well. Well indeed.

His first instinct was to groan, which he did, because of course they’d track down the journals he’d written during the Blight. They couldn’t have found a nicer, more incriminating account of how out of his mind he’d been if they’d tried.

He’d stashed them away out of sentimentality. He should’ve reduced them to charcoal.

With that out of his system, he read the notes again.

It rubbed him the wrong way that people had taken a look at everything he’d done and still suspected his motives, and Anders had resurfaced for the first time in years and _that_ was all he’d said.

No explanation, hardly an acknowledgment of what had happened between them. And damn it, Harry felt like an apology had to go one of two ways, he wasn’t sure which, but it definitely needed to be put out there.

Their suspicion frustrated him and Anders sparked a familiar cramp of misery and bitterness in his insides that shouldn’t have been even remotely associated with the bright young man he remembered.

But more than that, Harry was left uncertain. Working directly with the Inquisition felt like the next inevitable step, but he was unprepared for this development. Tevinter was still a state of disarray on the edge of an even greater disaster.

The Inquisition would require more hours of his time than there was in a day, and wouldn’t understand there were requests he couldn’t grant. Like leaving his home. Really, he expected that to be the first issue.

Harry hated working with organisations that disliked him. He despised not having a choice in the matter.

Merlin, how was this his life.

He composed a reply, sealing in a subscription to many headaches in the future. By the third draft he decided he’d filtered out as much sarcasm as he was capable of, and produced something that would only be mildly incriminating if intercepted.

_How kind of you to ask. Requests always hit my weak spots._

_Enclosed is a mirror. If you haven’t cast it away in suspicion and broken it yet, Anders will know what to do with it._

_Anders, I know damn well what you did with the last one. Ensure it doesn’t happen again._

_In good faith,_

_H.P._

He layered a compulsion on a bird and sent it on its way.

…

Harry was left in suspense for weeks. In the quiet moments he had a chance to wonder about the Inquisition, but there weren’t many of those. Another rift sprung up in the slum district of Carastes. Nearly a hundred people were killed before guards reached the area and took control.

Within the hour there was a push to legalise blood magic. Ostentatiously, the idea was to command the demons before they crossed the Veil. Harry spent four days researching and feeling sick and explaining why that wouldn’t work, though everyone knew the proposal wasn’t about the rifts at all. The vote came too close for comfort.

When Harry wasn’t in the senate building during the day, he was inspecting the rifts. When he should’ve been sleeping, he was in the library trying to piece together his observations.

The Publicarium was in uproar, the Magisterium was too removed from reality to follow. _Just soporati_ , they said, _it could’ve been worse_ , they feared, while hostile looks fell on Harry who’d not pulled a solution from his arse yet.

Contain the demons, appease the Inquisition, the Herald can staunch the rifts. He could offer no more than that.

 _If the Herald can do it, why can’t you?_ The prevalent whispers flew over him, and that one burned. Guilt niggled at him. Doubts snagged his thoughts, because he wasn’t infallible. Maybe there was a solution and he just hadn’t found it.

He trod the path from the Circle to his quarters, the ever oppressive glow weighed heavily on the horizon. It was a mirage, the Breach too far away to present above the horizon. The first, the largest - would it be a more complicated system than the rifts he’d seen, or directly scaled up? He hated to imagine the energy involved.

How someone had managed it, why they’d done it, what would happen if it spread... he simply had no idea. He had nothing to compare with, no past experience with worlds being exposed to one another.

It would be like ripping down the divide between Earth and the Station. The resulting physical/metaphysical world would be something he couldn’t even conceive. Actually, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was impossible to envision. No model of physics or magic could predict what would result because physics broke magic and magic broke physics; they were intrinsically different and there was, at least so far, no theory relating the two.

Some wizards were bat-shit crazy enough to try, sure, but no one had managed to figuratively open the gates of hell. Being in the Station was counterproductive to living. It wasn’t impossible, after all Harry had been there, done that, but it’d necessitated a ridiculous set of extenuating circumstances.

He knew frustratingly little, just that it _was_ happening: the barrier between the world and the Fade was failing.

That was it.

That was as specific as he could get.

And even that one sentence was _still_ running on assumptions.

The Fade was somewhat different to the Station; it was more accessible for one. People supposedly had walked there (and didn’t _that_ just go _swimmingly_ ). That in no way suggested the situation would be any less bad.

In the Fade things happened because something wanted it to. Spirits could change and shape and create, and to a lesser extent so could any visitors. It was a realm of gods and wow, Harry wished he’d never thought that.

Mixing something like _that_ with _this_. Yeah, he figured it was safe to assume it would be bad. Err on the side of caution and all that.

Life is not good at change. Physics was around _before_ life; life worked within those rules and constraints when it came to be. Change on a laws-of-physics level would turn more than the ecology tits up.

That understanding gave Harry the impression that the end of the world as they knew it was no longer an abstract idea, but the forecast.

With that cheery thought, Harry threw his door open and fell onto his bed where his pillow would muffle his groan.

He needed to sleep. Ten hours minimum. He could spare maybe five. He was drifting off, whether or not he felt he should.

He couldn’t solve this on his own. He was an obstinate idiot for trying. Had he not learnt anything? The kind of broken logic required to puzzle this out was clearly beyond the human mind.

Mind, singular.

A society has much more collective brainpower than any individual. He’d watched groups of people accomplish ridiculous feats when they applied themselves. This was the kind of investment worth dropping everything for. He just had to convince the world of that.

He doubted they would be more challenging than the Magisterium.

His name was recognised in the high courts of the most nations, he knew the King of Ferelden, he had friends in Orlais and the Free Marches, his best friend had an organisation of assassins at his beck and call. He could chat to every person who’d _ever lived_ ; renowned 26th century scientists who’d stood on the shoulders of their predecessors to reach further into the universe than anyone imagined; Dumbledore; Flamel; _Hermione_.

He grinned, relaxing a little at last, and slept easier than he had in weeks.

…

Something burned in his chest, pressed under his ribs and branded his skin. It felt like death warmed over. _Well_ , he thought even as he reflexively swore and rolled slightly too far, _that escalated quickly_.

He was suspended in air for a moment, but gravity took care of that quickly enough.

And then he realised he heard Anders shouting his name and he felt a bit stupid.

Grumbling, a little bewildered that he’d managed to get a full night’s sleep on a mirror (oh, and he was still wearing his boots, no wonder his feet felt terrible), he fished through the folds of his robes.

At the tap of his finger, the reflective surface changed. “Anders, it’s good to see you.” Given another hour of undisturbed rest, he might’ve managed more sincerity. “It’s been a while.”

Anders winced. “There was an incident with some dragons and a bone pit. You don’t want to know.”

The uncomfortable ball in his gut stirred, and Harry pushed it back ruthlessly. Those feelings were especially bad for his impulse control, and he was far from his best. It was probably fortunate, then, that another voice chimed in before Harry could affirm that, on the contrary, he very much _would_ like some answers.

“You know Blondie, suddenly all those times Hawke and I caught you chatting yourself up make a lot more sense.”

Bleary eyed, ruffled, dressing in day old cloths, and now entertaining company. Ugh. The voice was deep and contained a note of good humour, “Varric, I presume?”

“Hmm? Yes,” he sounded distracted, “Instant communication. Not bad.”

“It seemed appropriate. My mail isn’t as private as I would like,” Harry admitted, accepting the distraction from Anders as a matter of self-preservation. “I’m impressed you managed to get a letter to me in the first place.”

“One of the many benefits of being a dwarf; Tevinter won’t risk insulting us and endangering their trade agreements.”

“I suppose it helps that a Tethras married a magister.”

“It does at that. Say, did you really lead a pub crawl through three separate countries?” Smooth. Harry instantly felt compelled to exalt about that legendary debacle.

“Get _on_ with it,” another cut in from some distance away.

Harry blinked, “Is the _entire_ Inquisition listening in on this?”

“Just the especially nosey ones. _Engorgio_ ,” Anders cast, and Harry’s view zoomed out as the twin mirror took in more light. Soon enough he could make out several people he recognised and far more he didn’t. Leliana had hardly aged, the lone dwarf was just as hairy as he’d imagined though most of it was on his chest. They stood around a large wooden table. “Harry, this is Cassandra Pentaghast, Josephine Montilyet, Cullen Rutherford, Solas, and Herald Lavellan. Inquisition, meet Harry Potter.”

He waved a little cheekily. Pentaghast glared.

Perhaps sensing an argument around the corner, Lavellan quickly moved to the front, “Will you help us?”

Straight to the point. She was now his favourite.

“Of course. I like living, it’s a good look on me.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

He ignored the gruff killjoy. “But don’t get your hopes up. I’ve been working with the little rifts, I can’t do anything with them. It’s sure to take a while for me to figure this out. Unless your method is something I can apply?”

“I doubt it,” the Herald grimaced humourlessly.

Bugger. Never an easy out.

Leliana looked suspicious. “Even with your power?”

He was a little offended. “Power isn’t the issue, it’s a matter of not having the right tool – being several steps away from that point, even. I don’t know what the problem is, how to patch it, _or_ what means to use. It sounds like you landed on a gizmo honed for just this task. I’m just another mage with a big heavy hammer; not fit for chiselling the world back into shape.”

Well if he couldn’t be useful, he’d just have to be helpful. “What are you going to do about the main breach?”

“We’ll tackle it soon.”

Although, making himself useful would be difficult if they continued to be so tight-lipped.

“I suppose you’re not going to share the details.” Pentaghast glared, Cullen snorted, and Harry was not surprised. “Fair enough. What do you want, then?”

Solas stepped forward. “I would like to talk to you about physics and magic, and any theories you have.”

“Sure,” he liked the sound of that, actually. The elf had an intelligent look about him, and Harry would kill for a second opinion right about now. “I can spare a few hours around midday or after the evening meal.”

Solas sealed the deal with a nod, “I will ensure I have the mirror then.”

Harry hummed happily. “I will visit if you need my direct help, though I must remain here for now. The Senate is in session,” he explained. “Something is going on, there are several magisters that concern me.”

“Could they have had something to do with the Breach?” Cassandra surged forward.

Harry shrugged, “Not sure. I doubt it, though, they’re more like vultures.”

“I thought that Tevinter, officially, was running a non-intervention policy,” Leliana cocked her head curiously.

“ _Officially_ , yes. The Archon acknowledged the danger, but it’s not him I’m worried about. There are two main positions at the moment: those that endorse the chaos, and those that don’t mind it. I trust you can see how this might be a problem. The parliament is hung, Tevinter isn’t going to do anything until something forces their hand one way or the other. You’d better hope it goes our way; they won’t just make a nuisance of themselves if they commit to it.”

…

Giving up on sleep, Harry greeted the morning with the Stone in hand, but his excitement died quickly. The jewel slotted neatly into his palm when it was called, and it felt smooth and cool and _wrong_.

He frowned, looking at it more closely.

It seemed completely normal, but he’d not mistaken the pang, whether it be magic, pessimism, or the experience of the last few days weighing on him.

He’d never gotten into the habit of ignoring his instincts, they’d been far too useful for that.

That didn’t mean he could just set the Stone aside on a whim. He turned it with less of the practiced grace he was used to. “Hermione Granger,” he called her warily.

She appeared before him, middle aged and smiling brightly, only looking translucent around the edges.

And then she collapsed like her strings had been cut.

“Hermione!”

His hands shot out on instinct but instead of passing through her with a ghostly chill, his fingers snagged her forearm for a moment and it _burned_. Harry knew he cried out because his throat felt hoarse, but he couldn’t hear anything beyond the staggered beating in his chest, the echo in his head that chanted _wrong, wrong, the dead were_ not _that corporal_.

Hermione curled inward. Harry hovered anxiously. He was muttering, now. Merlin, Maker, god what was going _on_ , “I’m sorry, so sorry. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Just a bit woozy,” she breathed slowly, unrolled in careful, incremental motions. She looked horribly pale. “The world feels more solid, somehow. It’s a bit shocking.”

From their end, used to phasing through matter, he supposed it would’ve felt like the world was gaining consistency again. The dead were not comfortable in the living world in the best of times, this must be way out of left field.

“Wait, did you _touch me_?”

Harry must’ve nodded, for Hermione’s mouth slackened, “What in the world… What did you do?”

“This one’s not my fault!” he scowled. Honestly, friends. “But I think a magical universe is falling into this physical one.”

The witch didn’t know what to say to that. Harry pointed out the window. “That’s the Fade, another world, another set of physics somewhat like the Station. It’s the source of magic and dreams, haven for dead souls and spirits and the view isn’t supposed to be accessible from here.”

He’d never seen her so skin so sallow, she seemed very small. So much for his good idea.

“I thought you might help, but–”

“I will,” she interrupted, managing to stand tall for a moment before the effort drained her. “Talk to Barret Miles, he wrote the most fascinating chronicles. And find the ratio of magic to muggle. Also, the rate of expansion and side effects. Send me back, please. I can’t think here. Give me a few days.”

To recover.

He banished the Stone and she faded with a sigh.

Now the dead needed rest. It was a pretty definitive argument for Not Good. He set his patronus to work, readying his other allies quicksmart. He had a feeling they’d be needed.

…

Solas was an interesting being, Harry found. They’d spoke on and off in the days following that first call. Harry came to know his entirely unique outlook on the Veil, the Fade and just about anything. He was opinionated, confronting at times, but very convincing and hard to fault.

Or maybe that was just the elf’s charisma at work. For a village born, anti-social nomad, he certainly knew how drive a conversation.

Harry sat at his desk, for once, and resisted the urge to fiddle. The chair was more showy than comfortable, but the wizard endured. Something about Solas made Harry feel like he was a child lecturing to his Professors.

“The rifts are not normal,” he felt safe making _that_ particular observation. “It’s almost like the balance has shifted, like the Fade is pressing harder.”

“Explain.” He just had to have The Tone, didn’t he?

Harry would not huddle down. Merlin, this was not McGonagall; Solas was asking for clarification, not why his essay appeared to have been written by a first year.

Harry was built of sterner stuff, damn it.

“In my native world, there was a theory. To apply it here… hmm, our universe and the Fade are separate worlds in their own right; the Fade isn’t just a property of Thedas.”

Harry had explained physics before, somewhat, and he’d managed to convey the idea that the Fade had a different set of physics that was completely inexplicable, run by will and inspired by memories, that they call magic. But how to explain that the two are parallel universes existing in the same space and time? It was entirely out of left field.

“The world doesn’t stop at the sky; the planet isn’t an isolated island within the greater Fade. The Fade is _everywhere_ , kept out of reach by contrary laws of nature.”

Silence. Harry would not play poker against a face like that. It was uncomfortable, so he distracted himself by making noise. “It could be wrong, right, or a completely different situation. It’s hard to prove either way.”

Solas hummed, lifting his gaze from his laced fingers to meet Harry’s eyes across the mirror. “It’s an interesting thought, regardless. But assuming the Veil exists because physical and magical compatibility is impossible, how can rifts come to be? It sounds self-maintaining. To that affect, how can magic be performed here if physics forbids it?”

That was the tricky one. Harry geared up for Hermione-mode and wished his friend could be here personally, explaining it to Solas just as she’s helped Harry understand. Harry couldn’t do it justice. “Magic users don’t make impossible things happen despite physics, we substitute a different reality where anything we can imagine defines what _is_ possible. The effort we exert in spells goes into accessing the Fade in this way, and then we are free to channel or borrow its energy.”

The rifts though, if he knew for certain how they came about he would be doing something about them, right now, not chatting with a bald wanderer. “We never had rifts in my world, so I’ve no idea. But they _could_ work on the same principle, only they’re channelling matter. It’s not so different, really, matter is energy.”

“Overly simplified, but consistent with what I’ve learned,” Solas ruled.

Harry straightened in the chair, eyebrows high. Huh.

“Would you tell me more of your world?” the elf queried out of the blue.

Harry indulged him with barely a blink. “Magic is far rarer; something like one in a hundred thousand is born with magic, but it runs in families so there tends to be isolated societies that secrete themselves away from the world. We didn’t tire from casting. Here, magic is much easier to tap into; too easy, really, most mages exhaust themselves opening floodgates unnecessarily. I mean, a staff’s natural attack just throws that effort in the face of the enemy. Very inefficient.”

“Fascinating,” and that didn’t sound sarcastic, “It seems like your Fade world is more distant. Perhaps that is a consequence of a stronger Veil?”

Harry shrugged. “We never slipped through in our dreams. To my knowledge there were no spirits. As far as we knew, it was just a place for the souls of the dead. The relationship was stable, so everything worked.”

“It is a delicate balance,” Solas agreed. “We’re lucky the Veil hasn’t collapsed entirely.”

“That wouldn’t be fun.”

“Wouldn’t it?” the elf challenged, and something like humour, or maybe interest, danced in his eyes. Whatever it was, it was intense. “I do believe you are correct about how the Veil influences the magic available, but it could be said that it limits magic, since it keeps the full potential at bay. What do you think would happen if it simply ceased to exist?”

Harry raised an eyebrow sceptically. He seriously doubted anyone would be around to enjoy the magic boost. “It also keeps us alive.”

“I’ve seen hints of a time long ago, where the Fade was as natural here as the wind. Maybe the Veil was thinner – closer if you prefer – or perhaps it was non-existent. Who can say? The Veil as it is now creates a barrier that makes true understanding most unlikely.”

“That’s not a gamble I’m ready to stake my friends’ lives on. I’ll wait until we fail, to discover if we could survive it.”

Was Solas suggesting the Veil isn’t natural? Harry couldn’t decide. If it wasn’t, then by definition it was contrived. But by what?

The way he spoke reminded the wizard of a Tevinter enchanter from the Steel Age who’d argued that the Veil existed because both spirits and people perceived it to, and they only perceived it to because changing perspectives from the ever-changing and malleable Fade to the unchanging and solid world was excessively difficult.

Honestly, quantum physics was weirder and still fit the laws of the universe, so Harry wouldn’t discard the idea on principle, even if his logic sensors wailed at him.

“Forgive me, I side-tracked us,” Solas interrupted his crisis. “I meant to ask what you thought might’ve opened the breach.”

The wording caught his attention. What. Interesting. “Not who?”

“I doubt the person matters, except for that the artefact they hold. They may well be dead.”

“Sounds like you’ve already decided,” Harry pointed out. It was usual for Solas to make his mind up so quickly and immovably about something. He tended to be open to worthy suggestions. Harry admitted that an enchanted object would be the most likely option, but it was not the only viable one. “Why not runes, a group ritual, blood magic?”

“Blood magic would have left traces in the Fade. It must be an artefact, only a powerful object could store that much potential.”

Harry noticed he did not offer reasons against runes or ritual magic. Did they not even warrant a comment? Any powerful ritual could cause catastrophe; Harry had seen the consequences of failed rituals, often more devastating than failed wards, and that was saying something.

No, there was something else.

Despite Harry’s misgivings, he trusted Solas’ judgement. If the elf thought it was an artifact, Harry could at least indulge him until he figured out what was going on. “We would do well to recover or destroy it.”

“We could learn so much from such an object,” Solas said with a vehemence that had Harry leaning back reflexively. “It will be key to discovering how this happened, and prevent it happening again. We _must_ retrieve it.”

“I can agree with that,” Harry decided, cornered.

With that, “Thank you for speaking with me,” he replied abruptly, and then Solas disappeared.

Harry laid down the mirror, feeling oddly shaken.

…

A/N: Read this if the topic interests you. ‘From A Dissertation on the Fade as a Physical Manifestation, by Mareno, Senior Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle of Magi, 6:55 Steel’


	4. Insult first, plan later

The fervour wasn’t dying down, though it was long past the time when the Magisterium should have grown bored with the south and instead focused inwards. But, if anything, the ranks were getting edgier.

Harry couldn’t understand it. He suspected that many magisters knew far more about the situation than he himself did.

That did not sit well.

As the loud ones started shouting, the quiet ones began talking. Imagine his surprise when Harry found out that a notable magister, Titus, had supported their controversial little faction since the beginning. Titus was an asshole, the silent type of jerk who rarely spoke, but people hung onto his words when he released them because he was a bona fide genius.

He introduced them all to a new player for the first time.

Titus cleared his throat and stood for the first time in years. The general hubbub died a swift death.

“I was approached many months ago by a group called the Venatori,” he began without preamble. Perhaps taken off guard but the sudden change, several magisters reacted more strongly than they should have.

Titus’ intelligent eyes darted to each one in turn –Gallus, Erimond, Prycis– , and then proceeded to several more Harry hadn’t noticed – Alexius, Urathus, and more. It was remarkable how often those names coincided with Harry’s Shitlist.

Harry suspected, with cold dread, that was not a coincidence.

“These renegades, from the lowly mages to magisters in this room, have shown their desperation. They look to restore the glory of our empire by begging some other being to succeed where they have failed, foolishly acting as puppets in return,” Titus scorned, disgust clear on his face. “Evidently their pride as representatives of Tevinter means nothing to such cowards, sitting to heel like common dogs.”

Hands slapped down in the silence and at once, everyone remembered to look away from this quiet magister and to the coldly furious Archon.

Harry waited for the tension to snap, breath caught for the Archon’s reaction.

“Who is this aspiring leader?”Though silky smooth, he couldn’t have sounded more derisive if he’d tried.

“The Elder One!” eagerly, a magister that’s never warranted Harry’s attention before called out, before Titus was able.

Young Dorso never had been the brightest chap.

“My, my, this is well spread.” The Archon sat forward. “Enough to make one wonder why it has not been brought to my attention previously.”

Despite it all, the Archon didn’t look the least bit surprised. Oh, he affected an air of being caught off-guard and desperately disinterested. Quite convincingly. But it lacked the sincerity of true stung pride.

It was an act, Harry realised. The Archon knew about the group, enough about their movements and aims to feel confident confronting them.

Oh they were screwed.

The entire Senate waited for the allegations to drop: anarchist, enemy of the state. The brand could apply to anyone in the room if the Archon so chose.

Rule of thumb: at least half the Magisterium plotted against the Archon at any one time. There was one freak accident when he made enough popular decisions to lower that bar to around a tenth, and only the really ambitious ones persisted.

They’d all given it a go a some point. Treason was a prerequisite to the ranks of real magisters.

So labeling them anarchis wouldn’t be wrong, exactly, but such a blunt weapon would upend all manner of careful plans.

Radicals prefered to wait until they had enough sympathy to be called something more flattering, like ‘advocate’ or ‘reactionary’.

Now, only the word ‘children’ came to mind.

They were reduced to shuffling in the pews above him, as the Archon’s gaze burned them indiscriminately. He had a bone to pick with someone, and could have been any of them, all of them - heck, the entire drama could be revenge for voting down the last proposal, for all they knew. The Archon didn’t see fit to give it away and put them out of their misery.

And why should he? Harry realised, the Archon had the perfect leverage. He’d hung them all rather neatly, pinned them beneath their own thoughts.

Harry wanted to applaud.

Before or after he hit something. The Archon was a step ahead of the Venatori, and a hop, skip and a jump beyond Harry, it would seem. Because this… this was News.

It made the wizard uncomfortably aware that he’d been spending too much time saving the world in libraries and debating with a hermit. The Senate chamber was not where the successful caught on to things.

Erimond blustered and spluttered his way to his own defense. Which was really just an admission of guilt in the end, Harry mused. His mood buoyed slightly as the magister realised his mistake and desperately backtracked. At least Harry hadn’t fallen that far.

“The old days-”

The Archon stood suddenly, startling the less resilient into flinching. “The glory days are past! And they will never return if we cling to the scraps of success shed by a foreign man. You degrade us all.”

The powerful man rose smoothly. As if he needed something else to hold over their collective heads.

Eyes strained to track his movements. He circled the floor like something much grander than a man. “Recall, my court,” he started deceptively calmly. “That you pledged to me and no other. These... accusations irritate me. Who here would dare sully that duty with the conflicting wishes of an outsider? Who would be so quick to neglect their duty to Tevinter, their fealty to my name?”

A note of steel filled the frozen room, “I pronounce the Venatori unsanctioned and their leader a heretic. They do not act for the good of the Imperium nor its ruler. I now call an end to this session.”

The doors slammed resoundly closed, and Harry jumped along with those who hadn’t braced for the dramatic exit.

The wizard’s breath caught in his chest for another beat, but when there was no ‘and another thing…’ coming, he collapsed bonelessly back into his seat with an incredulous laugh.

Merlin, where to even begin. He rubbed his face with a quiet groan. It had been a somewhat comfortable ideological debate, but it just got practical.

…

“Were you aware of this Venatori cult?” Harry sat on his bed, plate in lap, and picked at the berries.  He had no appetite for the usual rich, greasy fair.

Amladaris had no such trouble digging into the venison with gusto, “In passing.” Translation: like the back of my hand.

Harry twitched, Irian noted with a closed expression. “They approached me well before this rift business began. They weren’t very clear on the details. I rather thought they were a bit mad and inconsequential.”

Harry didn’t bother calling out the obvious lie. Amladaris hadn’t brought it up a major player, hadn’t planned to either. Why?

Irian flicked a bean in his direction, distracting Harry from his thoughts. “Anyway I expect this will shake things up.”

“At least now they’re in the open, we’ll see how entrenched they really are,” he granted. “And I’d like to hear that ‘inconsequential’ information now.”

It didn’t take much weedling after that. Harry heard all the gossip about mad goals and a new messiah.

He kind of wished he hadn’t.

…

Talking with Anders did not end in tears. Perhaps because they were both far too repressed and manly to acknowledge their feelings, so things that maybe should have been said were left unspoken.

But they’d managed two conversations about current spirits and explosions while neatly stepping around certain historic spirits and explosions.

Harry labelled it tact and decided that was progress. It was more harmonious than cynicism had braced him for. He was torn between wanting to clear the air, so to speak, and crushing some precious gift in the process.

Still, it was more comfortable to talk business than leisure and Harry mourned that fact.

“Have you heard of the Venatori?”

He’d wondered, since the day the cult was exposed, how far their reach stretched. So far the consensus was not good. Like a creeper vine, they’d managed to smother half the Senate. He hoped they were less prevalent in the rest of the world.

Harry found he was not terribly surprised when Anders nodded.

“Yes, actually the Herald met a proxy of theirs, Magister Alexius the other day.”

“What? Alexius is… here…” The words felt like a reflex, but as soon as he thought about them, he became uncertain. He remembered a conversation with Irian, suddenly, about several magisters leaving for the south. He recalled that day clearly for the sudden spike in the number of rifts, the blood magic bill that had passed easing restrictions, and the general chaos the Senate had descended into.

Why did he feel like he’d had a dream that begged to differ? The feeling of discontent was unravelling, though, as he remembered what’d happened since that day, a fortnight ago, with more certainty. Reality asserted itself, contented, and his magic screamed at the loss.

An idea – a horrible, nightmarish thing – pushed to the forefront and refused to budge.

He swore.

“Shit. Pour a strong drink, I’m coming to visit.”

It was a credit to Anders’ familiarity with Harry’s classic Doom Response that he merely looked worried and said, “Bring your own bedding. We’re running low on spare cloth around here.”

…

Harry left a note, grabbed his trunk, and stole the blankets and pillows from his room, because Anders was rarely wrong. Harry couldn’t fault the other mage’s gut feeling; if his hunch was on game, this was not the kind of situation that necessitated a teatime chat and some cheap advice.

The wayward magisters had been loose for weeks. Weeks! He was fairly sure Alexius could apparate, so they could be Merlin knows where in addition to doing Maker only knew what.

One did not mess with magic like that on a whim; if the missing magisters had done what Harry suspected, they’d obviously done so with purpose.

But his wife was dead and Felix was blighted, so either Alexius couldn’t travel that far or there was something else he feared for more than his family.

Please let it be the former.

Harry disapparated to a mountain in Orlais and oh, wow, that was a mistake. He heaved and the bread did not taste as fresh going in that direction. That’d teach him. He allowed a few extra minutes to split the last hundred kilometres into two jumps.

Anders was startled from his pose; chin on hand, fingers tapping, when Harry materialised in the room with a small sonic boom.

Harry stumbled a moment, but the desk was conveniently available and he righted himself without bruises.

Then it hit him.

“Dear Merlin’s left asscheek that’s cold!”

Was that snow in the entranceway? No wonder. He’d forgotten how horrid Ferelden could be in the winter. And Haven was in the mountains, too. He wrapped his subtropical clothes tighter on instinct, and that did exactly nothing but call for immediate the thorough application of warming charms. Hot air settled on his prickled skin, and he looked up to see Anders grinning at him.

“Oh don’t you start.”

He looked far too innocent. “Start what? I was just admiring you collar. Very high. Distinguished. Really shows off your exposed shoulders.”

“You’re one to talk. It’s not as if you’ve been running with the dead bird motif for a decade.”

He hadn’t meant for his magic to react to the prodding with a colour changing charm, but he couldn’t argue with the results.

The feathers looked better that way, especially with how Anders was squawking.

With a delicate sniff Harry spun, threw open the door, and pretended to know where he was going until Anders caught up. “Who’re we looking for, then?”

“Someone with the authority to know what’s going on right now,” Harry said in a way that he hoped came across as sagely instead of clueless.

“Well, the Herald is traipsing about in the Hinterlands,” Anders shared, “Cullen and Leliana are drifting about somewhere – they’ll find us before we find them. Josephine will be in the Chantry.”

Chantry. Of course. He’d probably burn at the stake for entering. He stepped over the threshold with a cheery grin that was probably far too transparent, judging by the angry, disgusted and fearful muttering that buzzed around him.

The diplomat looked busy and Harry felt almost guilty. That was until she muttered a quiet, “Oh dear, I’m sure you caused quite a stir.”

He suddenly found himself less charitable. “Yes, thank you, I’m bad for your image,” he grouched. “But this is important. Where is Magister Alexius and what’s he done?”

“He is in Redcliffe. He recently assumed control of the rebel mages.”

He closed his mouth around the automatic, that’s it? A small army of stateless mages would give nearly no imaginable advantage; they certainly weren’t worth the effort he expended to get them. Then, he realised, of course, “You have no idea what he’s really up to, then, or there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Or option C: a little of both.

“There are many things I am not at a liberty to tell you, Enchanter.” She looked apologetic, which just served to annoy him.

He rolled his eyes. “What can you tell me?”

“Enchanter Fiona, leader of the mages, invited the Inquisition to visit Redcliffe. We learnt, then, that Alexius had taken over. His son and former apprentice informed us that the magister was acting on behalf of a Tevinter cult with unknown motives. But,” she paused, here, a knowing look in dark eyes, “You didn’t come all this way for that answer.”

“I think Magister Alexius went back in time.”

“You’re the second Tevinter mage that’s said as much this week.” Harry jumped and spun, heart screeching into overdrive. There was Leliana, relaxed against the closed door, beside Anders who coughed and shielded his dimpled cheeks from view. Traitor.

That woman was bloody terrifying.

“Oh?” Harry managed to choke out.

“Yes, the first was one Dorian Pavus.”

Harry’s expression betrayed his interest. The court had kept up with his escapades like a serial drama, at least until the man had dropped off the map in Antiva. Pavus hadn’t been heard from in several months. Most, including his father if Harry had heard correctly, thought he’d died at some point.

Pavus would know, though, if Alexius had worked that magic. Theory confirmed.

Bloody hell.

Harry didn’t understand how this could even happen. A year ago Alexius hadn’t even been in the near neighbourhood of success. He’d all but given up until his son fell ill and Harry knew he’d made a push then for a chance to undo the damage, but nothing had come of it. Perhaps he’d had help from another party. Harry couldn’t imagine who; Alexius was the leading expert in the field. It would be highly unusual for someone to come in and take his research leaps and bounds in mere months.

“The Venatori want the Herald,” Leliana continued. Harry felt distinctly evaluated under that stare. He couldn’t find it in him to be surprised at the news, considering their stance on the Breach and the Inquisition.

“So why’s she in the Hinterlands? She’s not going back, surely!”

“No, Alexius outplayed us,” the spy master looked pained to admit it, “The Herald pointed out that he may very well continue to do so, no matter our actions. If he can live our future then he will know our moves before we make them.”

“Sensible,” he agreed. People do not win in against time travellers unless they want to lose (ergo they still achieve their goals), or they are very, very careless.

Josephine smiled wryly, “It leaves us in a delicate position, I’m sure you can imagine. Our plans depend on gaining support from either the mages or the Templars, and in light of their recent choices, we are hesitant in approaching either group.”

That was more than they’d ever trusted him with before. Harry wondered just how much communication Leliana and Josephine were doing with those complicated eyebrow configurations.

“The Herald is in fact far from Redcliffe. She is in the Storm Coast, gathering support while we wait to see what our prospective allies attempt next,” Leliana said after a heavy pause.

Anders interjected with a guilty shrug, “Sorry Harry, I couldn’t risk being overheard.”

“You must understand this is a matter of highest secrecy,” she finished gravely on the very same gulf that was responsible for complicating matters between them.

“Of course.” He couldn’t help the sarcasm. It was default by that point. He sighed tiredly. “This isn’t working. I should’ve been told about Alexius as soon as you met him. This magic is incredibly dangerous, and unstable at the best of times, who knows what it’s doing to the rest of the world.”

“Yes, about that,” the diplomat started.

Harry couldn’t believe it. “You’re joking.”

They weren’t joking.

He ran his hands down his face and growled. “I am attempting to solve your problems, yes? Do you expect me to guess what those are as well? You agreed to provide the data I need.”

“It’s not that we don’t value your contribution,” Josephine began, “We only –”

“You don’t trust me to avoid being overheard, or the people around me, or my ability to keep my mouth shut,” Harry summarised. “That is a little insulting, honestly, I’m not an amateur.”

They were wary of his place in Tevinter, clearly; they couldn’t control the fallout if their information spread to the wrong ears, or take measures to prevent it occurring in the first place.  

There was one solution to that. Harry really had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but time travel is next-level stuff. Evidently the people behind this were far more prepared and supplied than any threat before.

It would be an absolute nightmare to juggle his duties between the Inquisition and Tevinter from Haven. He’d lose ground if he wasn’t a presence in their parties, backing Irian, and managing the demons, but the Senate session had concluded so he wasn’t actually required to be there. That was manageable. The real problem would arise if his opponents tried to annul his tenuous citizenship again –seven years in the making with only three to go– which was already controversial without him ditching the Senate for the ‘Southern barbarians’.

There would end any and all influence.

He could excuse his visit as research, surely. The Magisterium was desperate to find a way to seal the rifts without depending on the Herald, so if he sold it right, it wouldn’t cripple his efforts beyond repair. And Irian was almost dependable; he’d let Harry know if his presence was required.

No exactly optimal, but, then again, could he afford not to move? That was the only question that mattered in the end, and he already knew the answer, whether he wanted to or not.

“New plan. I’ll stay here, if it’s no trouble,” Harry suggested. Subtext: you’ll have me watched and read my mail, and in return I will know everything. Really, just try to keep it from me.

Leliana brightened, “Not at all.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, the quick acceptance giving him the feeling that he’d just played into her hands.

“I will show you around the camp. It will do you good to be seen in my presence. Our people may not try to knife you.”

Great. Now he’d have two groups of people looking for his every weakness. He regretted it already.

His dark mood carried him to the entrance, but it was not to last. As they say, all good things come to an end, any bad situation can always get worse.

“That is not who I think it is!” Cheer so false it was perfectly mocking, a quick sashay of her hips and she bared their path. It was her all right.

Vivienne.

Balls.

He smiled (grimaced) and found that he couldn’t force a nice word out from behind his teeth.

“Oh darling, it is you!”

How did she manage to sound so sincere and malevolent at once? Hag. He didn’t say that aloud, no, he was chill proof, not immune to being riddled with icicles. He didn’t even dare to let it show on his face.

“Madam Vivienne, it’s been too long.” Six hundred years hadn’t been long enough to brace him for their first meeting, he doubted he ever would’ve been ready for their second.

“This is unexpected! The last I heard, you we playing at being a big boy in Tevinter. My, you’re not here to help, are you? Whatever do you imagine you can offer?” she laughed.

She respected his power. He knew she did. She knew that he knew that she did. She still said the nicest of things.

He grit his teeth and called it a smirk, ignored her question because she hated it when she couldn’t get people to bristle. “Your unique charm is always a pleasure.” Maybe I can give them help wrangling you.

He would forever be a child playing with fire in her eyes and she’d never cease being a bitch, but the respect was there. Theirs was a complicated relationship.

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“I will watch your flailing attempts with bated breath,” she waved them away like they breathed on her command. “I wish you luck, dear.”

The spymaster watched him curiously, with a little humour, as they returned to the cold. “It was the pub-crawl, wasn’t it?”

“You’ve gotten unnervingly good at that.”

She ducked further into the shelter of her hood. “Come, most of the people you should meet will be in the tavern at this hour.”

Harry eyed the sky skeptically. It was hard to tell, what with the Breach and miserable clouds and all, but he thought it was around mid-afternoon. Late lunch, then?

Nope. Well, perhaps a lunch of the liquid variety. The tavern was dingy, packed and lively, reminding him of a thoroughfare to a magical alley that never stopped being welcoming, even after the alley had been abandoned.

This one did. Swiftly.

At first it was because of Leliana; most people knew she was scary and busy, so if she was here it was probably serious, and a hush fell as each person present remembered their latest sin.

But then the quiet dimmed to a stunned, angry silence, because the monster from children’s tales had walked in behind her.

‘And thus the resistance begins,’ Harry thought morbidly.

A giant of a Qunari called their attention, and the wizard wondered how he’d missed him in the first place. He sounded jovial enough – not welcoming exactly, but not looking for trouble. “So you’re the ‘Vint in town!”

Technically not. He really was just a mage playing dress up. But they wouldn’t appreciate such a flippant, however true answer; a cheap excuse in their eyes. He bowed to the pub at large. “Harry Potter, at your service.”

His greeting was accepted with something less than grace. “That Harry Potter?” “He’s a child!” “Potter’s not a Tevinter!”

Why did he bother, again? With each step it was getting more difficult to remember the altruistic feelings he’d begun with.

They crossed the room without starting any bawls, which wouldn’t usually be an accomplishment, but in this instance it was a particularly noteworthy one.

Closer up, the Qunari appeared somehow more intimidating. He had a larger set of horns than Harry had seen on many creatures, including most dragons, and a fiercely intelligent look to his remaining eye.

“This is the Iron Bull, and these are the Bull’s Chargers. He’s a Qunari spy,” Leliana dropped on him without warning, causing Harry choked back his surprise. Not just a Qunari, but a follower of the Qun.

His voice fell flat, “In the middle of your camp.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” Leliana questioned. It was a good idea to address these issues upfront, he couldn’t fault that. But their judgement in other areas…

It was still crazy, he accepted with a shrug, “To each their own, I suppose. It’s your head.”

Unexpectedly, Iron Bull chuckled. “That’s what I like to hear. Joining us for a drink?”

The Bull was speaking to Leliana, of course, but Harry thought if he accepted there could be a chance he wouldn’t be thrown out on his arse. More than he’d hoped for, not something he’d try.

Harry’s life was worth a lot to the Qunari. They knew exactly who to thank for surge of never before seen magic and the subsequent edge for mages everywhere.

His skill with wards, runes, and apparition would make him no friends here. It didn’t matter than he’d never set foot on Seheron; he was an enabler. He’d armed plenty of idiots with his secrets. Not intentionally, of course, but once knowledge was out there it was hard to regulate how far it spread, even harder to control what people did with it. The more radical the idea, the faster it moved. Apparition reached Tevinter years before Harry himself did.

But the alternative was to keep it to himself, and Harry was not that person. It would be unforgivably arrogant of him to presume to know best about how and what others should be capable of.

Hence the unpopularity. To a follower of the Qun, Harry was bad news. Whether or not their dislike extended to something personal, taking him out was just good tactics.

So Harry was not overly fond of putting his back to the Iron Bull and walking away. His nerves prickled uneasily, anticipating pain, but Leliana moved impatiently.

“So is Bull officially being appointed my minder, or did you hope that meeting would inspire him to do it automatically?” Harry asked once they were out of the range of normal hearing. He could still feel that eye on his back. Spine, kidneys, gut.

“Bull is very good at his work. He never needs orders from me.”

The second, then.

They climbed to a nondescript part of camp and Harry felt it. Or, he felt the lack of it. Rather hard to say.

His stirring magic clued him into the fact that he might want to pay more attention to the world beyond where he would next place his feet. His brow furrowed with concern. There was nothing; no smell or sight, no ominous feeling. It was almost hollow; alarms pinging around a cause that seemed to have been misplaced. It didn’t seem good or bad, specifically, but the way his magic acted up was certainly disquieting.

“Where are we going?”

“Right here,” Leliana raised her hand to knock unnecessarily; the door opened as Harry reached her side.

“Good evening,” Solas greeted Leliana with a nod, then his attention shifted, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance in person.”

Harry registered the smile, but only peripherally. He felt pinned by the elf’s presence, strange in a way that’d never been conveyed by images alone.

“Likewise,” he lied. There it was – that lack, like cards held too close to a chest. Belatedly, he realised a nod had been offered and returned it hastily, keeping contact with too deep eyes. The small smirk in them belied seriousness of the elf’s expression.

“Will you be staying with us for the time being?” Solas found his answer in his expression. “Good, our collaboration will be much more productive without countries separating us.”

Harry almost reconsidered. Even the Vivienne Experience hadn’t been enough get him that far.

“There is a premise I thought I might run by you, when you have the time.” And that meant ‘the sky is falling, come in while there is a now’.

“Sure.” He didn’t squeak. And one day he’d return to multi-syllable sentences, and it couldn’t happen a moment too soon. Leliana found something horribly amusing about it all.

She abandoned the wizard with a jaunty wave.

Harry longed to take those same slippery paths. He smiled instead. “What can I do for you?”

Solas waved him in, seeming oblivious to Harry’s discomfort, and it was hardly warmer in the cabin than it had been on the doorstep. That didn’t faze the shoeless elf, Harry noted somewhat enviously.

“I’ve thought on our last conversation. It has opened doors I thought closed by practicality,” he leant against a small table of questionable structural integrity, “If we could employ your methods of more efficient magic, we would put much more power to good use and require less of an investment in the beginning.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’ve come around to the idea that there’s something inherently different with how I practice magic?”

Solas had maintained that Harry was simply more powerful. Harry hadn’t realised he’d converted the elf to his way of thinking.

He wished he knew how he’d done it.

“We shall see. Please, demonstrate a spell.” Solas watched him closely.

Harry very pointedly strode over to the cold fireplace, lit it with a quick incendio, and basked in the warmth.

Before the spell had even hit the wood, Solas’ eyes lit up in something like affirmation. “Just as I thought,” he murmured to himself, and when he looked at Harry it was like a lens had switched. The wizard wondered if he was talking about efficiency at all.

“What?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.” He gathered himself. “It was a good choice, thank you. I noticed you did not heat the air.”

“Most mages would. They see the wood as a closed object, and they energise its surroundings until it burns. But burning is internal; my magic skips straight to that. Same spell, subtle difference, but the heat transfer is costly and unnecessary. You can ignite something, or you can make it combust.”

Solas narrowed his eyes and tested that for himself.

“Curious. Would you say inefficiency can be overcome by changing one’s outlook?”

It took seven years to train witches and wizards to that point. They’d start small; they had no choice. A first year could learn seventh year incantations and still never perform the magic if they didn’t first acclimate gradually, until the easy spells got easier, the impossible spells became possible. People who were used to getting by on less had an easier time of it. Power alone wasn’t enough. Power accounted for the paltry difference between Snape and Voldemort, efficiency determined who wasn’t practically a squib.

“Most of it is just about being very precise and knowing exactly what you want. They key is making it instinctive. Then your magic will cut corners habitually, exploit the weak spots, and find the most direct route to problems, like mine.”

Harry wondered why the elf had brought it up. It was interesting, maybe even helpful in this world, but not usually necessary. “They told me you needed mages or Templars to close the Breach. Sounds like you’re amassing a lot of power.” He lowered his voice in an attempt to sound more knowledgeable of their plans. It almost covered the fact that he was guessing.

Solas looked faintly amused. “We need as much energy to close the Breach as was used to open it.”

“Right. And how much is that, in units of people?”

“About thirty average mages or Templars. We might skate by on twenty strong individuals,” he sighed, but Harry couldn’t imagine why he sounded so put out.

“Well you shouldn’t need too many more, surely?”

“Besides the inner circle, there are only eight very average mages and a similar number of Cullen’s Templars in camp at the moment, I believe. Maybe fewer, if the Commander has had enough of their bickering.”

Harry offered his hands in a general ‘there we go’, “Half way already.”

“They will not work together,” the other mage rolled his eyes, displeasure obvious. “They would not put aside their grievances even with the world at stake.”

Harry assumed that was important.

The elf sighed and elaborated. “All must be harmonious for this to succeed. The slightest conflict of will would risk the Herald. Therein lays the difficulty – it seems every other individual in Thedas is caught up in their unreasonable war.”

Right, yes, very important. Harry could see why that might be an issue. You could throw a stone and hit a mage, but scour a country and still not find two that trusted one another. They were desperate, fighting everything and everyone for resources, twitchy and barely trusting the rustling that could as easily be a Templar as a companion. The Templars might actually be worse.

“Now that’s just ridiculous,” Harry blustered. “You think too little of people. When push comes to shove, nearly all people will work together.” It occurred to him that the idea might have some potential. “Instead of letting these groups clot up Haven with their frustration and fear, they should be out there together, facing adversary directly. That’ll bring them together. Not all of them, granted, but weed out the stubborn few and those remaining will get along much better. I haven’t a clue how to help Templars but I could give the mages some pointers for efficiency as well.”

Solas seemed unmoved, outwardly stern. “Cassandra and Cullen would help if required. Of course, you would also provide a substantial amount of power.” That was as good as full endorsement for the idea.

“Won’t you as well?” Harry widened his eyes innocently.

He was fooling nobody.

“I must conduct the proceedings.”

Cheap excuse. They could have a loudmouthed warrior shout the necessary words. He deliberated, now, be he kept that to himself.

“You know, not all us Tevinter mages are completely friendless, paranoid loners. I’ve already called in favours. And by that I mean I have many people in a watertight blackmail-enforced grip.”

“What a strange definition of friendship,” Solas marvelled dryly.

Harry shrugged unrepentantly. “We’d want to watch our backs and pockets afterwards, but they’ll hold up their end,” he warmed to the idea, and wound up pacing the small cabin. “We mustn’t forget to invite Sirius, and Anders will be keen.”

“The healer?” Solas looked up with interest.

“The fantastic healer, yes, he’s also an accomplished elemental mage.”

“I got the impression he disliked fighting.”

“He does.” Now, yes naturally. A change in subject was in order. Definitely time to head back on track. “Thirty people. I’ll start a list. This shouldn’t take more than a week. Honestly, forget about the rogue Templars and mages – too extremist. Get someone to talk to the people we already have, get their esteem and ask around, plenty of mages will start showing up.”

Solas stroked his chin idly, “Yes, I know the type. The Herald would be good at that. It was not an option when this began. The people did not trust us. But… that has changed. The Herald is admired, a well-known face in the camp. Her efforts to secure a better future for the rebel mages have been transparent.”

“That would go a long way to convincing people speaking up is worth the risk,” Harry grinned, pleased.

“We may still fall short. This is not something we can afford to underestimate.”

“Runes in quartz,” he suggested. “Stability, harmony, stamina. Let them surround the area.”

Solas considered. “It would not do much.”

“It doesn’t need to,” Harry pointed out with a small smile.

The details took longer. Much longer. When Harry was released, darkness had fallen. He paused for a moment to breathe the cold, dry air. It felt like he’d just survived an ordeal, but he had no idea why.

He shook the feeling off.

Now, to find a bed. Leliana had neglected to mention that, he suspected on purpose.


	5. Barge in uninvited

Sometime after getting a crick in his neck but before Harry had the chance to get a decent rest, the camp began to stir in earnest. Resigned to wakefulness, Harry rolled off the pallet only the sadly misinformed would call a mattress, acutely aware that he’d gotten soft.

He blinked blearily around the room, trying to remember where he’d dumped the chest. He found it halfway under his bed, and working through the morning routine, pulled the wad of thin fabric off the top of the pile. It made him feel cold just looking at it.

He stripped mechanically, and was still shirtless when the epiphany struck (and really, it was remarkable how often those states coincided). He was in Ferelden - a land _happy_ to go to the dogs, scornful of complicated politics and subtly, a culture that revered practicality over all.

With no small amount of glee, Harry stuffed the garment back, took care not to fall into the deep pit, and rummaged until hard scales met his fingertips.

The wyvern hide robes fit like an old skin; comfortable and familiar, and though they were a bit ripe on the nose, it felt refreshing to be himself again. With the dead animal equipped, he was practically Ferelden already.

Certainly, the armour was more comfortable than Tevinter fashion pieces, and not just because they lacked buckles in unfortunate orifices. There was something altogether relaxing about stripping away the pretense, and the new honest set to his shoulders allowed him to take on a level of self-assurity he hadn’t known he’d been missing (and probably didn’t really need).

He strapped on his enchanted daggers and briefly considered dolling back the theatrical billowing… but where was the fun in that? He turned on his heel with a great _swoosh_.

So good was his mood, that he could even endure porridge.

...

“Good, you’re awake.”

Harry just about died.

“Could I have a moment of your time?” Leliana asked politely, as if she hadn’t just witnessed him jump a foot in the air from a sitting start.

The wizard nodded absently, quickly spelling drops of mushy oats off his person, lest it be glued there forever. “Of course, what do you need?”

“I spoke with Solas.” She settled into the opposite chair and examined a dry chunk of bread before eating quickly. She didn’t elaborate.

It was all rather secretive, Harry decided, considering the tavern was mostly empty and there was no need to make their interaction seem like a social call. He found he had very little patience for it this morning.

“Do you have questions?”

“I will save them until we may discuss it properly with the rest of the leadership. The Inquisition cannot change its plans without their input,” she smiled briefly. “I have already written to Cassandra and the Herald. I expect to receive word of their support in the coming days.”  

“So you approve,” he nodded happily, at least until his teeth crunched over a mystery ingredient in his breakfast. He swallowed with a shudder.

Leliana’s eyes narrowed on the doorway. “The sooner we are able to act, the better.”

Her words were sharp and bitter. Harry was at once struck by how much time had passed since he’d travelled alongside an optimistic young bard. “In any case, we need enough mages and Templars to replace the rebel group.”

“Correct. I have been assured you can handle the recruitment, but still I would like to suggest a few prospects from my own past. No doubt the Commander and Cassandra will have more names to add.”

Tension in his shoulders eased a little in relief. Between them, they would get enough mages on board. Probably.

 _Surely_.

But it wouldn’t hurt to start wearing the stubborn ones down right away, just in case they ended up stretched for numbers.

“I’m going to drop in on a few today,” he decided.

She smiled, “Then it will be far quicker for you deliver a message for me. How fortunate, it will be far more personal than a raven.”

Walked right into that one. “Sir, yes sir,” he saluted sarcastically.

Evidently satisfied, she stood. “Try to look a little more intimidating,” her smirk fell into a considering frown. “Though I doubt that will work for you. Perhaps aim to look darkly mysterious, and older, if you can; confidant certainly, or they will walk all over you.”

Harry’s eyebrows climbed, his lips twitched.

“Get a fur coat. A white one. Oh and leave some blood on the lapels to bring out your eyes.”

He snorted, surprised and delighted. “You concern me. What kind of people are you setting me up against?”

“Just some old friends,” she waved off. It would appear he was in for one of her ever-entertaining ‘surprises’, then.

“Right, shall I pack any specific poison antidotes or will general fire tonics suffice?”

...

The crack accompanying his arrival in Nevarra was met with silence. He raised an eyebrow, and bellowed; “Anyone up yet?”

There was an expectant pause. A muffled crash. Then the door slammed open and rebounded against the wall. “Uncle Harry!”

A little blur shot out unsteadily on sleepy, shaky legs and Harry knelt to catch her just before impact. He lifted her squealing, squirming body high above him with a great deal of effort. “Little monster, you’re getting so big!”

Merlin, he forgot how fast they grew. “Are mum and dad around?”

“Sleeping,” she told him, and they shared a look of great betrayal.

Harry posed thoughtfully, deliberating whether or not to unleash a horror. He decided, in the end, that in deciding to settle down Sirius had brought this on himself. He didn’t have anything particular in mind, exactly, but he was sure there was something. “Do you want to learn a little magic, Romy?”

She’s lost another couple teeth since his last visit; they showed when she smiled. “Yes!”

“Well come on, this is how we make water.”

Sirius nursed a glass later, and gave it a look that wished for something stronger. “I hate you.”

“Did you want to teach her that one?” Harry scoffed, “Everyone knows pranking comes from the cool uncle. Besides, she’s being helpful! Look at her watering the plants.”

“She’s making a mud pile,” and was it just Harry or did Sirius look a little wistful? “There’s a better spell for that.”

There was a pointed cough from the other room.

Sirius grinned unrepentantly, “I mean, the hard work will do her good.”

“You boys,” his wife, still beautiful and smiling as the grey hair started to show. She put up with so much. They were both going on fifty now, but they looked younger, brighter than they’d been apart.

Sirius drew her in and rested his head on hers contentedly.

“How was the moon?” Harry asked.

They watched Romy throw rocks, splashing mud every which way with delight. “Kind,” Claudia said proudly, “She’s getting a grip on it. She threw a tantrum and turned right back around midnight.”

Harry was glad to hear that the kinda-but-not-entirely-a-werewolf thing wouldn’t control her life.

He stayed and they caught up until lunch. It was nice. He put off his news as long as he could, he didn’t want to pull Sirius away from this. He _knew_ Sirius deserved this happiness; Harry reminded himself every time he visited, which unfortunately was not as often as he’d like. Parental life was busy, it wasn’t anyones fault that Sirius couldn’t, or no longer wanted to, run the careless bachelor lifestyle.

There was a little unpleasant part of Harry that the wizard tried to ignore - it pouted about Sirius having more people in his life, people whose own motions had skewered the previous orbit and separated Sirius’ life from Harry’s; it was just so bloody selfish. Everyone (well, _almost_ everyone) progressed through life, they moved on and up, a decade is an awful lot to (most) people and they must rush to make the most of it.

Harry wasn’t bitter (right, of course), but he perhaps wasn’t as sorry as he should have been when Sirius readily agreed to lend a hand saving the world, just like they used to.

Harry couldn’t dislike Romy, however else his feelings might betray him, that fact never changed. Like her parents, he would do anything to preserve the world long enough for the girl to grow old as well.

From there, he took a world tour in a single afternoon.

Irving had passed just a year before, before the initial outbreak of fighting, but the Ferelden Circle was running peacefully, a little island in the chaos.

It was terribly creepy, actually.

The residents were the same group that had chosen to stay after Harry introduced apparition and gave most of the mages an opportunity to flee. After the drama in their past, not one of them was perturbed by the small war around them.

As a legendary Disturber of the Peace, Harry’s arrival was not warmly received by all. The old folks had never been his biggest fans, and all the apprentices he’d known had grown into young adults, retaining only blurry impressions.

He was surprised to see so many people about, including a new batch of children and old Templars and some people he was convinced weren’t from either group. The fighting must’ve driven some fed up mages and families to seek refuge in the Tower. Fancy that.

At first they wouldn’t hear a word about saving the world. They were aggressively determined to go about business as usual, to the point where some denied there was trouble. In their little island, there really wasn’t, so it was all the more difficult to recruit volunteers.

He left with four promises plus a significant headache, and went with relief back to the chaotic world where Templars and mages hated each other and ruined the livelihoods of common people and the world made _sense_.

Harry probably should’ve started with the elves; a fresh quota of patience and a calm mind might’ve made a difference. Unlikely, but not impossible. In the end, the Brecilian Dalish wouldn’t spare their Keepers or Firsts, but his Chasind friends clamoured at the chance, and a pair of twins were strong enough to take part.

From Rivain to Ferelden to the Free Marches, back to Tevinter. Harry dropped in on Wynne’s old laboratory. It hadn’t changed much since it’s founder had passed, having given her guardian spirit for another. Wynne should’ve marched through the doors, pleased to see him but pretending otherwise, ready to share her progress with Shale and the other golems. Or just shove a cookie at him. She’d always done that.

The cookie smell persisted, which was odd until he realised, of course, her apprentice Antonia, must miss her too. The short girl loved her enough to drop the research at the chance to do what Wynne surely would’ve done.

He didn’t track down Amell. Preserving harmony and all that.

From Tevinter to Antiva to Orlais. Harry visited anyone he could think of, any mage he’d met, heck, any _person_ he’d met who was even remotely friendly with mages and might know a friend of a friend who rumour said was a closeted ‘archer’.

It was astounding how many mages had lived outside of Circles for years. Some wouldn’t come, other wouldn’t make promises, but more did. The Inquisition had built a steady reputation for being helpful and reasonable, and Harry made a note to hug whoever was in charge of PR.

Some wanted in on the historic moment, the religious fervor, others cared more about the world than they did themselves; none of the reasons mattered. He gave them portkeys and told them to dress for the weather.

By late afternoon, he had nearly fifteen candidates.

Naturally, he decided that was the perfect time to visit Leliana’s friends.

Perhaps his confidence was buoyed by the string of recent successes, and on top of his shiny armour, his ego reached near critical levels. But that was no excuse.

…

He ate like a famished dog.

“Nightingale was looking for you, earlier,” Varric announced, giving Harry pause. “Where’ve you been?”

Where _hadn’t_ he been? “Securing allies.” He considered the storyteller. He’d have contacts upon friends upon minions.

The dwarf chuckled at his look, “Yeah, I know your plan. I sent a bunch of letters off, with any luck a few decent Templars will turn up from under the rocks they’ve been hiding under. I’m sure Daisy will come, too, provided she doesn’t get distracted along the way. Might need an escort, come to think of it.”

Harry hummed and gulped down another spoonful of the gritty food. Varric added his bowl to the table.

“So my fingers are cramped and my eyes hurt,” the dwarf rolled his eyes at his own expense, “but how was your day?”

“Fine. Very productive, for the most part. Then shit happened,” the wizard twisted his elbow around, rotating sooty marks into view, “A table hit me here; that was my greeting the moment I appeared in the living room. My mistake; it might’ve startled them slightly. Then there was a couple daggers, a bit of lightning and a startled horse. The second bloke was very creative.”

“Friends of yours?” Varric laughed.

“Leliana’s,” Harry muttered darkly.

Varric grinned, gesturing for more.

Harry was all too happy to commiserate. “I even told them I was there on her behalf. The first one looked like at me like I was a Pride demon offering a special. The second bloke tried to dump a vat of acid on me. So I suppose they weren’t her friends as much as distant acquaintances she keeps an eye on. I don’t even want to know what she put in that letter to convince them.”

“I hope you at least got their help, after going through that.”

“Damn right I did.” He stabbed a lentil for emphasis.

Varric took pity on him, “How about a distraction from all this worldly nonsense - have a drink and I’ll tell you about the time Anders turned Darktown upside down looking for his cat.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “How bad is the ale, here?”

“It’s not brewed for dirt,” the dwarf shrugged. “Tastes like it, but isn’t.”

“Eh, why not?”

A drink turned into several, and sometime between longing for bed and killing the nerves in his mouth, Varric brought out a deck of cards.

By the second game, Harry was staring a little cross-eyed at his hand and still trying to recall the rules.

On an unrelated note, the dwarf was robbing him blind.

“You started without me?” the Qunari shouted across the pub. Or maybe volume was proportional to size and that level was quite normal, Harry couldn’t be entirely sure. He looked up; realising at once that the Chargers had returned from a day of work, and that the Bull was headed their way.

“I couldn’t resist! Look at him,” Varric chuckled, which was good because Harry really didn’t know what to do in this situation, “It’s like his face doesn’t remember how to be a politician at all.”

Harry sniffed, “Subtlety is overrated. You can get away with being flashy.”

The Iron Bull and another man, smaller man, a lieutenant possibly, pulled up chairs.

“I’ve heard of you,” the man said. That sentence usually went one of two ways, but Harry couldn’t guess which in his state. The slight accent conflicted him; it eased Harry’s concern about the Bull hating all Tevinters on principle, but then again, the man might’ve heard and told the Qunari _anything_.

He played a card, enunciating carefully in the way only the drunk can manage, “What have you heard, exactly?”

“Something about setting a Magister’s garden on fire, and then making him vomit slugs to get out of being arrested.”

“It was the other way around,” Harry admitted bemusedly, because really, _that_ was the story that travelled? “The slugs came first, and for some reason he found that insulting. One thing led to another.”

Varric’s eyebrows were trying to distance themselves from his chest hair for prominence. “Why?”

“He cut a slave. Said his hand slipped. I was drunk, my magic slipped. Pity. Those slugs are surprisingly flammable.”

“And you got off scot free and I bet the slave copped it later, am I right?” the Qunari sighed, shaking his head like Harry was another kid with a lot of good intentions and little experience. He hadn’t been for a while, thanks.

“He freed the slaves,” the lieutenant recalled before Harry could, looking at said mage with eyes narrowed. “That’s why it was such big news in Qarinus. How’d you manage that?”

The words brought it all back. Harry couldn’t remember the Magister’s name, only that he’d deserved every minute of suffering.

“Selective memory,” Harry grinned unashamedly, adopting an overly remorseful tone. “Even once I’d sobered up the next morning, I hadn’t used the counter curse in so long, for a moment there I was worried I’d have to start the research from scratch. I think his life flashed before his eyes, he re-evaluated all his choices.”

The Bull roared. Harry and half the patrons, jumped. He almost fled before he realised those teeth were bared in amusement. Varric raised his tankard, a silent cheers in the chaos.

The lieutenant slapped in on the back and sent him careering into the table, laughing, “Congratulations, it’s actually nice to meet you. I’m Krem.”

Harry grabbed the cards before they spilled off the table and divvied out two more hands. “Pleased to meet you too. Now are you going to take my money or what?”


	6. Trial by water

Six hundred years, and no one had cured a hangover. Oh there were myths repeated by every generation with teary-eyed wonder, of special remedies that could extract the regret from a fun night, but Harry suspected they were based more in wishful thinking than historical accuracy. No spell or health poultice would magically stop his brain stabbing his eyeballs on behest of his liver.

If there was a god, that sounded like a fucking statement.

He immediately muttered the same old lie about _never again_ , thus completing the post-drinking ritual, and moved on with his miserable existence in with a vain hope that his haste would carry through and the pain would just leave already.

He decided to work from bed. His judgment had improved overnight.

There were several tasks to complete that required very little concentration, and some of them were even important, (not high enough on the scale to alleviate his guilt, but enough to prevent anyone dragging him into the harsh light of day for a few hours).

He finished messages to various parties, sent his research and more excuses to the Magisterium – well, he directed them to Leliana with forwarding instructions, so she wouldn’t shoot his birds down to get at them. Perhaps she’d merely read them. Or at least, she wouldn’t edit too much.

He was too exhausted to kid with himself for long: _something_ would be sent to Tevinter, and it’d certainly be in his handwriting, so the stuffy politicians would be satisfied and fussing about it was an unacceptable expenditure of energy. He’d need all the liveliness he could muster to brave the world. He just had to get out there and maybe he’d absorb the ambiance from the cold dead mountain and bring life back into his bones.

…

A week later, Harry was distracted from a debate by the giant hart marching into camp. It was the sheer size that took his breath away. It towered over the people and the horses accompanying it; it was built like an elk but larger than a freaking moose.

He’d always held a certain bias towards deer –understandable given how he spent his time when he wasn’t human– but there was enough deer in that one creature to give a man a complex.

It took an elbow in his gut from Anders before Harry granted the rider more than a passing glance, and he realised the small person on its back he’d been somewhat ignoring was _the_ Herald.

Good start.

The party dismounted near the paddocks and Harry was happily swept along by the tide that went to greet her. She was older than he’d expected.

He was too far away to hear their business, but Cullen caught his eye and beckoned for the wizard to follow the entourage up to the Chantry.

They started without him. Harry decided that was a good thing.

“We cannot make this choice lightly.”

“It is clearly the best option; we have built the connections to summon as many individuals as we need.”

“The Templars–”

Cassandra cut Cullen off impatiently. “We’ve met the Lord Seeker and fought droves of fanatics. If they are any indication, the remnants of the Order may not work harmoniously with anybody.”

Leaning against the door, as close to out of the room as he could politely be, Harry decided patience would be the better part of valour. Their views were valuable, certainly, but caring and sharing was gruelling.

“The Lord Seeker’s leadership is disgraceful, but I cannot believe the Templars have lost so much discipline that they are beyond reason.”

The Herald rolled her eyes; no one paid her any attention.

“Heard all this before?” Harry asked lightly.

“All too often. It’s getting dull. This isn’t even relevant anymore; they have already agreed your plan is prudent. I suspect they just like arguing.” He expected her to put her foot down, but she turned to him instead. “Ellana of clan Lavellan. It is nice to officially meet you.”

“Harry Potter, likewise,” he replied with a bow. But he was curious, “What is your opinion on all this?”

“Uncensored?” she checked with a rueful grin, “The mages are idiotic and the Templars are mad, both are desperate and arrogant. I believe the polite phrasing is ‘unreliable and antisocial’.”

His lips twitched. “That sounds about right.”

“If Potter’s plan doesn’t work, the Templars aren’t going anywhere, we could still approach them if necessary,” Leliana pointed out.

Cassandra scoffed unexpectedly, “I am more concerned about the mages; I don’t like leaving a Magister anywhere, but especially not so close.”

“Oh dear. A tangent,” Harry chewed his lip.

“A relevant tangent, but still,” Lavellan agreed.

“What can be done about it?” Josephine wondered. It was a fair question.

“I have scouts in the village. The fortress is untouchable by large forces, but we can get a small group inside if we must.”

“They could become a big problem,” Cullen agreed.

“We have a big problem,” Lavellan muttered, unheard, “It’s green and spitting demons at us.”

Harry snorted. Alexius was reputably a toothless dog. Now, the sudden appeal of the South to several still-missing Magisters and the timing of it all – _that_ was concerning.

Unfortunately, it would seem his duties were doomed to remove him from the comfortable background. “You won’t be able to touch Alexius. Magisters develop a certain signature to their magic – a key, an automatic pass for familiar faces, if you will. You’d need a mage they are friendly with to shield your spies, anything less will be detected.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Magic makes Tevinter politics a waiting game; opponents are untouchable on their own ground. Incidentally, travelling is exciting and the parties are a blast,” he shrugged. Honestly with their resources he couldn’t see success on the horizon.

“We can worry about the Magister later,” the Herald asserted, “ _If_ he is planning something, _if_ it is related to the Breach, then closing it will likely draw him out. If not, then he is not our highest concern.”

“True enough,” the Seeker nodded.

Josephine brightened, “Latest estimates are all pleasing. We have almost forty expressions of interest.”

“I’ll have them ready in two to four weeks,” Harry predicted. They had a large pool – with luck there’d be two dozen strong, cooperative people who wouldn’t require much training among them.

“Get the Chargers involved,” Leliana suggested, “They will sort out the troublesome ones.”

“We can begin right away with those already present,” Lavellan looked prepared to do anything but waste more time.

“Right then,” Harry addressed the advisors. “I can enchant some portkeys. If you send them to the rest of your candidates, when they say the password they will be immediately transported here. We won’t have to wait for anyone to walk from Antiva, that’s always nice.”

…

Haven lacked basic facilities, like big and flat spaces, so they ended up beside the frozen lake. It was moderately free of forest, which was all they really needed.

The crowd stretch from the length of the bank. Vivienne had assured Harry he held some appeal to the morbidly curious. He hadn’t believed it until half of Haven turned out.

“Inquisition!” Cullen started, “In three weeks’ time we will march with the Herald to close the Breach. Some of you will be able to take part – we will now determine who that may be. For two of those weeks, you will receive personal training from Inquisition trainers. I suggest you listen closely.”

The muttering started, as he’d expected.

Harry paced slowly. “Each mage and Templar here has the potential to interact with the Fade more effectively. Achieving this, in essence, gives you access to more power. This is not ritual magic, we will not be bargaining with spirits or learning new spells. The catch is that this is difficult in a way you will be unaccustomed to – it will require more persistence than you think you can give.”

The recruits were a jumbled bunch. There was a clear divide between the mages and Templars, as members of each group sought security in their own sect and remained wary of the other. The curious soldiers and villagers hovered around the edges, uncertain what to think. But liberal minds had allowed friendship to cross that divide before, and it could be encouraged here.

“Let’s get to work.”

Harry started by blasting them with water. It wasn’t a torrent, exactly, but there was enough pressure behind the stream to wear down the magical barriers quickly. It was prudent: he needed to gauge their level and they’d be there all day otherwise. He didn’t do things _just_ because they were fun.

The longest held out for a minute. It was a long, stubborn sixty seconds full of sweating and swearing, and a dramatic fall upon her knees and, finally, a great pop and a sudden soaking.

“Impressive,” Harry was uncowed by her glare. He quickly dried the woman off.

They were not overly pleased, but they’d learn. The icy bath would seem like a refreshing wakeup call in hindsight.

He levitated a feather first, vertically, pointy end to the sky. “In my culture, mages spend seven years in an institution, learning how to perform magic.”

Harry drew one of his daggers tossed it in the general direction of the feathery prop. The blade slowed, halted by the grasp of his magic.

“And that,” he continued. “entails escaping logic, imagining every possibility, and applying basic principles to difficult problems.”

By now the dagger floated above the feather, the metal tip rested on the base of the shaft. The dagger began listing, he moved the quill to compensate. The simple reaction task didn’t require much of his attention. He turned to face them properly.

“This is the abridged course. We’re running a tight schedule. So let’s get to it; mages, your job is to balance a sword on a feather for ten minutes. Mind that the different weights don’t throw you off. And try not to destroy too many feathers, please. Or swords, our Commander will have my head. Men and women of the Templar persuasion, you will be helping them; the key to this exercise is quite similar to one of your mental drills.”

His pronouncement provoked a swathe of uncomfortable mumbling between the factions, as if to deny that they had something in common. It was amusing and saddening – so much could have been avoided, if that very same segregation had not been encouraged for centuries.

“You’ll have to work together to close the Breach. That’s bigger than anything that has happened in the past,” he reminded them. Then he stood back and watched them test the waters.

The level of self-assuredness remained high until the mages tried to hold the feathers and the hitherto unobtrusive breeze made their lives difficult. The Templars lurked awkwardly as the mages grew more frustrated.

Poor sods.

It was immediately apparent who’d worked with other people before; they didn’t suffer in silence.

“Do you think we should treat the feathersword as one object or two?” The Chargers’ self-proclaimed archer, Dalish, asked the nearest human. She received an unfriendly shrug for her innovative move. Dalish moved on to find someone more amenable to succeeding.

The others who were ready to admit they’d hit a roadblock quickly followed her example. Teams formed, debates raged, they soaked up every word Harry would give them, the Templars were eagerly called in to chat.

It was weird for everybody.

The few loners that remained fit more neatly into Harry’s expectations. They grew frustrated with every bit of progress the teams made, but obstinacy won out. Harry was unerringly fond of them.

But progress, well, it’s all relative. Some feathers were _almost_ levitating steadily.

“This is exhausting,” a young man groaned. “It cannot be this difficult, there must be a trick.”

“Full marks.” It was the comment he’d been waiting for; Harry swooped in on it with a smile on his face. “Tell me what you’re trying to do to that poor feather.”

“Uh… compensate for the wind?” A woman fished. Oddly, Harry thought she might be one of Ferelden’s ex-Templars.

He smiled. “And how would you describe my control?”

“Absolute. Constant.”

“Firm. You don’t let it do anything.”

“Exactly not,” he informed them. “You think that if you can force the feather to obey your every thought, you might respond quick enough to hold it steady, so you concentrate on each individual movement: it goes left, you say go right. That method _might_ work. Eventually.” He remained doubtful, but decided to be generous, after all; “I can’t say, I’ve never bothered to train my reflexes that way. But even if you steady the feather, you certainly won’t have enough concentration to spare for the sword.”

Harry granted the young man a nod, “Think more generally – you know what the end result needs to be, let your magic turn that into action, without your constant interference.”

He grinned, and watched their faces fall. “I’m afraid you’re simply thinking too hard.”

…

Even with the progress they were making, Harry was surprised by the common sense on display. His eyebrows climbed without his permission.

“Oh well _done_.” Two sticks danced around one another above a fiercely concentrating woman. She neatly circumvented a multitude of difficulties: the different weights and sizes, the feather’s flexibility and delicacy, the intimidating toe-amputating danger of the sword.

She spared a second to grin at him. “I’ve found it helps to simplify a problem and gain an understanding of the concepts involved, when there’s too much going on.”

Everyone else was fixated on the problem, they’d developed tunnel vision. It’s a very natural thing to do, made worse because Chantry teaching encourages listening over thinking. “You were not raised in a Circle, I bet. What is your name?”

“Bethany. And you’re right.”

Harry smiled, but not for the confirmation of his guess. Beside them, the sticks were balancing. Bethany gaped and the sticks toppled.

“Multitasking,” he explained simply. “Helps to stop you overthinking. Keep at it – you’re almost there.”

The thing about success – once one person starts making it, it spreads like a virus. They were doing well.

When the sun was as high in the sky as it would get, this time of year, Harry called their attention.

“You will have found, by now, that this task is unexpectedly difficult.” One of Leliana’s friends appeared to be planning his end. “Take a moment to congratulate yourselves. Our progress is unprecedented; break for lunch now, return in two hours.”

There was grumbling. Stumbling. A great deal of tummies rumbling. Some stubborn souls didn’t leave until hassled, and even then they hung back trying to catch Harry’s eye. He made it clear he wouldn’t be divulging any tips, and they accepted his silence with slumped shoulders.

Eventually, the area cleared. Harry picked his way through the piles of equipment, checking the swords for damage and fixing the inevitable wear on the feathers.

“You surprise me, dear, you are a decent teacher. It is just a shame none of your lessons hold value. What do you hope to accomplish?”  Vivienne. Of course. It must’ve hurt her to rein in her derision around the trainees. She would be keen to reassert her opinion in the universe.

Harry rolled his eyes and nodded overly agreeably. “You _would_ fail to see how this is helpful. It’s a thought exercise. Requires a certain amount of open-mindedness.”

“An amateur mistake; to preach progressiveness when you should learn the opposite. You bring customs from a world without demons, to a verse ripe with them. Here, they are untested by our trials and defenceless to our evils; have you considered how vulnerable you are making the mages by extension? Caution keeps us alive.”

“The Circle is stifling. Some of those barriers are wise, I’m not arguing that, nor am I teaching mages to circumvent those few. But the Chantry imposes constraints on magic that have far more to do with scripture than either safety or practicality; most of the restraints holding these mages back are purely superstitions.”

She looked down her nose, levelled him with a pitying look. “It is unwise to open a tap you cannot control into power you do not understand.”

Dear Merlin the condescension was irritating. It was unlikely that he’d be able to actually faze her, but it was worth a shot. “My, my, you _are_ rankled. Is it _that_ infuriating that you cannot do it? That, despite the power you’ve gathered, nearly everyone is making progress while you are not?”

And just in case she happened to feel that, he made quick exit and resolved to make himself scarce. With so many people around, that took an invisibility cloak and a timely diversion.

…

“This task cannot be solved by power alone. It is, simultaneously, not difficult and nearly impossible – which camp you fall in depends on how you think. At the moment, it seems insurmountable because it requires thinking unlike any you’ve experienced before. We’re going to address that now.

Do not think of magical power as strength. If magic was a muscle it would not be bulk that you want, but _flexibility_. Flexibility allows you to do whatever you please; push to the limit of how it is possible to move, past pain, work endlessly as long as you desire. Most importantly, flexible magic is adaptable magic.

Practicing ever harder spells will only get you so far. If you can learn to be adaptable, no matter your resources, your experience will count for something and every problem you encounter in life will fall into place.  

Magic is entirely flexible by nature – your ability to make use of that is the issue. If you have found magic a struggle, now or in the past, I guarantee it is not in the magic that the problem lays, it is in you. The mind is more plastic, harder to persuade to adapt. But it can be done.

 _That_ is what I will teach you. Now that you’ve learnt the necessity of the technique, we can begin the lesson.

Step one: we must practice flexible thinking. Focus on something else – chant an incantation aloud and be fanatical about the pronunciation, or follow a precise movement; establishing patterns has power over your mind.”

…

He let some of them succeed before ending the workout, but the sun had passed below the peaks and the clouds were turning pink.

“Good work everyone, you’ve begun the process of becoming adaptable. It’s a downhill run from here.” Harry barely heard their cheers; he straightened in anticipation, his tone brightened to an aggravating degree. “Before I let you enjoy the evening, however, we have one last exercise. A contest. Barriers up, boys and girls.”

On top of the trials of the day, his cheer was too much for some. “Why? To entertain you? We’ve been performing magic all day! We are tired, we’ll not perform at our best.”

He raised a brow. “I’m not prolonging your torture, I’m making a point.” Harry pointed a finger theatrically, the Wand appeared in his grip.

The speaker set up a blue barricade with haste, just barely in time.

In the end, the silence was tense, the mage look faintly murderous.

“Time?” Harry calmly requested.

The counter startled. Double checked his notes. Startled again. “A full minute. Twenty seconds longer than his first test,” he said tentatively.

“That sounds about right,” Harry said. A little below average, but not bad. “Who’s next?”

Surprise made several of them take leave of their senses – they actually volunteered.

…

The group dispersed, tired, chilled and beaming with pride.

It was late. Harry had intended to speak with Anders and meet his friends, but as with other good plans and intentions, they could be postponed in favour of desperately needed sleep. He fully intended to be a well-rested antisocial wizard, but he was waylaid from his destined bed.

“Harry, if you have a moment?” Solas appeared from the shadows between the buildings. He looked insistent. Then again, didn’t he always?

But _bed_. He was beginning to appreciate the unique combination of lumps and holes in the stuffing. Ugh. “Alright.”

The elf smiled. “I will not keep you long. Today was enlightening. I wish to thank you. It is always a pleasure to widen my horizons.”

Harry shrugged awkwardly. “It’s the least I can do.” Now, what did he actually want?

“I’m curious, though. Why the barrier test?”

Simple enough. “My people had a saying: magic is 10% talent, 20% memory, 70% belief. I needed to prove to them that they can improve. Now, they will. They believe in themselves, they believe in me.”

It was a good day.

As for the night? Less so.

He explored the spirit interpretation of Little Whinging. It was unexpectedly amusing.

With no real world equivalent to inspire the little actors, it couldn’t have come from anywhere but Harry’s head. That explained the rather… abstract style. It had been many, many years since he’d set foot in the town, and the spirits seemed to pick up on the general feel of the place more than the vague images he recalled.

There were Dementors sipping tea with the couple from Number 8. The playground was a literal battleground. A giant mirror sat at the end of Private Drive. A squadron of Kneazles the size of lions patrolled the streets and demanded milk and petting. He was fairly sure events hadn’t unfolded that way.

The spirits didn’t know what to make of the lamp posts – some took them to be mood lighting. But Harry had to admit, they did a stellar job with the ambience. It was sinister and surreal and determined to be dull but not sure how to go about it. He felt like someone was watching him. It was pretty spot on. He’d never been left in peace, there was always someone breathing down his neck – his relatives, the bullies, the judging neighbours, his guards, Sirius. The heavy presence felt a bit like the Grim, come to think of it, inasmuch as it was huge and dangerous and stalking his footsteps for an indeterminable reason.

The more time he spent feeling like something was skirting his shadow, the more convinced he became it wasn’t a manufactured feeling of the dreamscape and that something actually _was_.

It didn’t seem malicious, exactly; wary, certainly, and curious, but Harry had developed a sense for things that were curious in a ‘what’s it taste like’ kind of way. There was a definite flavour to their presence. This one was just powerful.

And he wasn’t going to say Vivienne was _right_ , but she might not be entirely wrong when she implied he’d catch the attention of something he couldn’t comprehend and would rather be in the periphery of.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Harry had a way of it.

…

The presence continued to bother him most nights. He surprised it once, by calling out to it. The feeling vanished, and it took a long time and a fair amount of concentration before Harry picked it up again. The presence probably hadn’t left in the interim.

Maybe it was just shy?

Yeah, Harry doubted that.

The trainees took his mind off it; in a few days they’d progressed well.

No one questioned his technique after the first day; they didn’t bitch about him setting homework and giving them lots of little annoying spells. It would seem they’d made the link between mentally taxing exercises and building willpower and that phenomenon they called mana reserve.

They were good students, and they respected him, which was nice of them, if somewhat unhelpful. Frankly, they were too reserved around Harry, and that left Cullen and Solas to put in the long hours and do the evaluating. They sought attitude over aptitude. There were no warnings about slurs and abuse or anything else written into the foundation of being a decent, cooperative being. One strike and the assholes were out.

It gave Harry more free time than he knew what to do with. There was only so much to be done; duels to practice, spells to demonstrate, tactics to plan, _more_ meetings to attend, Magisters to investigate, Tevinter to reassure and visit, a niece to spoil, a cackling bow-wielding elf to dodge, friends to catch up with…

Perhaps the miraculous thing was that he found blocks of spare time scattered throughout his days at all.

He found himself drawn to the makeshift stables. The fences weren’t nearly sturdy enough to keep anything that didn’t want to be there. So the fact that the space was occupied was absurd.

“How in the world did they tame you?” he wondered aloud, cautiously approaching, but no one told him off and the creature didn’t object. The hart was intimidating; the height it had over him was especially apparent when it trotted his way and ducked to sniff at his hair.

Harry hardly believed the noise it made could have come out of a deer. The trumpeting bark rumbled right through him, though.

It was pleased, he could tell that much. He tried not to move as it nuzzled him roughly. His health might regret upsetting it. Not that he was in much of a hurry; the initial trepidation was gone, it was humbling and thrilling to interest such a great creature.

“It isn’t tame,” and elven stable hand had stopped shovelling, eyes wide. “It’ll take a chunk outta your arm if it doesn’t like you. You’re good with them.”

Harry was doubtful, he’d never been an animal whisperer –with some chance scaly exceptions– he recalled something about giant exploding crabs and some sort of disaster with a hippogriff, it was a safe bet to assume; “I’ve had mixed results.”

“Then you’re a braver man than I, serrah.”

Harry pet the hart’s jaw and between his antlers. He knew from experience they usually needed a good scratch. In response, the hart planted his forehead in Harry’s chest – it was no mean feat; the head was as long and thick as his torso – and the animal’s sigh shook the fencing. Harry was suddenly surrounded by antlers. He’d never seen a bigger pair on an animal. He rubbed the hart’s ears, ran his fingers through the thick mane. There were burs in it.

“Have you got a brush?”

The elf sagged in relief. “Aye, can you get to his neck? He won’t let us touch it, an’ Lady Herald hasn’t been down today.”

The hart _purred_. Dear Merlin, what was up with this things voice box?  

Harry tried to school his stupid grin, and gave up just short of biting his cheeks. “You’re not as scary as they say.”

He almost ate his words when it came time to leave. He thought for a moment the hart was going to smash its way out and insist he take it home.

“Harry! There you are,” Anders dropped an arm around the wizard’s shoulders. The effect was similar to being shoved in an aviary.

“That time already?” The wizard asked mildly. Anders steered them toward the tavern. The Chargers had marched into camp earlier with the hide from some sort of monster – the celebration was expected to be memorable. “Who’s buying the first round?”

“The Bull, but we may have missed it by now.” That was a matter worth serious concern.

They were halfway through their cups. Anders shot Harry a betrayed look, and Some Words could have been expected, if they hadn’t been dragged in opposite directions. Harry lost sight of him as he was somehow herded to the centre table.

“Potter, have a drink!”

A tankard of something was in his grip and there were hands slapping him on the back and the background noise turned into a daring chant. The mood was highly contagious.

Bull loomed like a proud parent, or maybe a rowdy uncle, and that didn’t feel quite so threatening anymore.

The next time Harry saw Anders, the night was far from young and this friend was almost leaning on Blackwall. “You know, I thought of being a Grey Warden once.”

“What stopped you?” Harry couldn’t tell, under all that beard, how the Blackwall felt about the arrangement.

“Thinking about it,” Anders answered, shaking his head. “And then my phylactery was crushed to tiny bits so the appeal of freedom was nullified.” Their corner had cleared out some; Bethany sat next to two tattooed elves, all three a little pink around the ears. Harry recognised Dalish, the other he’d seen around Varric often.

“Perhaps for the best. Even good things aren’t worth doing for the wrong reasons.”

Anders mused on, undeterred by the grim injection of realism into the atmosphere. “Would’ve liked the community though. I’d never belonged somewhere before; the Circles should’ve been that place, but there’s _rules_ , you see, they don’t let you settle. And you!”

“Me.”

“Yes! M– you! You waste that, hiding in the soggy hills. Nathanial was like that; great friend, good brother, noble Warden, shitty socialite.”

Harry met the younger Howe only once; he’d seemed like a dark character, not unlike his older brother had been, actually, so there was little wonder he and Anders got along.

The unknown Dalish elf turned, “Oh don’t say that! Nathanial is lovely, some of the time. And very helpful; he got Hawke those maps.”

“You were with this bunch in Kirkwall?” Harry was surprised; she didn’t look the sort. Kirkwall tended to attract a certain kind of desolate or devious.

She smiled brightly. “With Hawke, yes. The older Hawke as well, that is, not just this one.”

He followed her gesture with raised eyebrows. Bethany shrugged. “He’s my brother.”

“Huh.” It was day for bewilderment, evidently.

“You know each other, that’s lovely. But I didn’t introduce myself, did I? Sorry! It’s strange being in a new town. My name is Merrill.”

Harry settled in to stay.

They were actually terrifying together. Anders soon released Blackwall to argue with Merrill, and at the point that made even Harry wary, Bethany got nostalgic instead of alarmed.

Harry supposed that after a Qunari invasion, the public execution of a Grand Cleric and a swift rebellion, a decade long debate would seem like a healthy way for two people to work out their differences.

…

And then the break was over.

Their hastily scrapped together group of mages and Templars had thinned out under pressure, and a suitable team had emerged. The ritual was prepared. Lavellan was resolute and ready to get it over with.

The tension was getting to all of them. Harry was unsurprised that the Seeker showed her frayed nerves by violently confronting any potential problem.

Her grip was bloody painful, though.

“Mind yourself when close the Breach, Potter. We do not want any _accidents_.”

It was for the benefit of all, really, if she let off steam. Harry was fine with martyring himself; being the immortal one, he was equipped for the job. She had a way of making him feel otherwise.

“Alright, say your piece.” He was resigned, not sarcastic. Judging by the way her eyes narrowed, she didn’t appreciate his effort.

“Watch yourself,” she repeated dangerously. “‘Magic is meant to serve man’, and however the political interpretations differ between Tevinter and the rest of the world, on a practical level it is clear to see your… relationship with magic is a tenuous one.”

“It’s not that simple,” he began, and ran into her iron resolve.

“It is a tool, dangerous both to you and the people around you. I don’t know what you’ve heard from the barbarians up north, but magic _will_ rule you, if you let it.”

“Power going to my head, yada yada.” Been there, done that.

“That is besides my point entirely. I do not have _many_ doubts about your head for power, my concerns are more literal. This… instinct? The way it catches things, shields you,” she shook her head. “That is not control.”

He bristled a little. He was proud of that skill; it was seven years in the making. It’d taken relentless practice every bloody day, until enchanting had become as easy and instinctive as breathing. If it occasionally did something he didn’t expect, that was just part of the deal.

“It’s not conventional, but that doesn’t make it a problem.”

Cassandra frowned heavily, until she almost looked more concerned for him than of him. “It is like a limb that moves without your explicit direction. How far is that from a demon moving it for you? If you do not choose when to act, what is to say it will allow you to choose when to stop?”


	7. Trial by fire

The former temple was a sight. The blackened stone was glossy in places from where it'd been melted by the heat of the explosion, pocketed by holes in others where it'd been straight up vaporised.

To clarify: not a good sight.

Smog hung in the air like a stain, and the sky hadn't been seen since they reached the mountaintop. It wasn't as dark as he'd expected. The rift glowed, as did strange distorted white-green patterns on the rocks.

"That is the Fade taking root," Solas said, when he saw Harry watching their mesmerising configurations.

Harry sighed. He'd been, unsuccessfully, trying to forget about that. Harry almost felt like he was in it. Rocks were suspended in the air, not from a spell, but because they wanted to listen to something other than gravity today.

It was unsettling.

Warm too, enough to melt the snow. Harry felt what might be the heat source when he passed too close to a red crystal of some kind. It stretched through the cracks in the rocks like inflammation around a wound.

Cullen caught his arm and pulled him away. "Don't touch the lyrium," he warned seriously.

Harry gaped. "Wait, _that's_ what lyrium looks like before they bottle it!"

"The stuff you've been taking is bluer, I hope," the Commander muttered humourlessly. "But essentially, yes. This is ore."

He'd worked with the distilled stuff, but Orzammar guarded their raw supplies closely. Honestly they probably worried about his motives more than his safety, but still. "It's that bad?"

"I'm not an expert." Varric was gruff, but even hearsay can be useful. "The normal type is toxic when ingested. Makes mages tranquil on contact. It's addictive. But the red kind will get you from across a room."

"That's… disturbing." It wasn't iridescent, it didn't appear to reflecting or filtering light at all. It was actually _glowing_.

Harry didn't know of many things that glowed naturally, and he didn't like any of them.

Later. Right, reality tear now.

…

They'd all been briefed, then waited for the signal. Harry stood between Sirius and Anders. They were in arms reach if anything went wrong. He didn't know if that would make a difference.

His hands were clammy.

"Focus past the Herald!" Solas called.

They knelt and tried not to brace themselves.

The Herald lit up in green, there was a hissing crackle and the smell of ozone reached him. The mark caught and pulled something. It felt dry and potent. It was a wave drawing him out over the sand.

His muscles locked. His breath quickened, and part of that was fear. He bowed his head, against his instincts, and surrendered.

Things got fuzzy, after that point.

He felt Sirius's _fierce-protect_ and Anders's _calm-troubled_. He identified Cassandra in the _faith-resolve_ and Vivienne in the strange _conviction-control_. He felt every person in the temple; their energy loose and swirling endlessly between them, funnelling past Solas and through the Herald, into a vicious battle against the Veil tear.

The power built; it pooled and flailed against the void, until the threshold was reached, and then the damn burst.

Bright flashes filled his vision. He felt the rubble strike his back and heard Anders swear.

He tried to role, brace himself to sit up, but upon moving his arms he felt every one of his six centuries, and he wondered just how long he'd been holding that pose.

"Bad idea," he muttered deliriously. He lay still, feeling raw to his bones. It felt like he'd been hit with a smite. The shaking and exhaustion associated with magic loss kicked in as expected.

But the world came back into focus, and it was more beautiful than before. The sky was back, and that was always a plus. The green remained, but it looked better now, more like an unpleasant storm than a gaping pit. They'd succeeded.

"Huzzah," he groaned, with as much enthusiasm as he could manage. Which was not much, really, it flat-lined at sarcastic.

Sirius chuckled.

"Shut it. I don't see you skipping around."

He got up eventually. People were starting to get concerned for the prone wizard, and their attention was grating. They were looking at him stranger than he thought was warranted.

"Lyrium?" a soldier was handing out small vials, giving mages and Templars enough of a boost to get back down the mountain.

Harry felt sick at the prospect, "Thanks." It didn't do much, but it gave him the energy to walk over to Solas.

The elf sat in the centre of the cratered building, eyes closed, presumably examining the Fade.

Harry waited there until Solas opened his eyes with a smile, "So, did we win?"

"We did."

…

Those that hadn't been plodding up mountains and sealing Breaches all day looked like they'd be carrying on celebrating well into the night. Harry drank with the best of them without guilt, of course, because he made a point to save all alcohol related regret for the next morning, and the warmth did a bit to fill the emptiness his energy had left. A brief indulgence to acknowledge their accomplishment, but he really should leave. He needed to take advantage of the situation before someone else did and turned the Senate into political hell.

Harry forced himself to stay awake until the other energy-dead helpers started dropping, then he made sure to thank his friends and allies, and he handed out return portkeys so at least some people could get rest before dawn.

He offered the last to Sirius and received a tight hug in return, "You've got to come around for dinner this week. The girls will want to hear all about it. You know me, I didn't pay attention half the time."

Harry laughed. "I'll bring the little terror a souvenir. Maybe a spell book."

"Don't you dare."

"Go home, you dog." His grinning face was gone the next instant. Harry stretched; his whole body ached.

"That was your Godfather?" Cassandra. Brilliant. "The one you summoned into the body of a wolf?"

Harry was startled, for a moment. She'd been one of the lucky bastards to read through his diaries, then. "The one and only, so far as I'm aware."

"He looks well," she sounded… almost tolerant.

The wizard blinked. "Pardon?"

She glared, then sighed gruffly, and that was more like it. "I will not pick a fight with you tonight. You helped us, though you had no reason to do so."

"I have plenty of reasons," he said fondly. "I have a life you know. Friends. Family. I rather like the world." He sighed, "I should be getting back to it. The Senate will be in uproar by now."

He was packed and ready. He'd optimistically cleared out his cabin before they set out that morning, figuring that the world might end, but on the off chance it didn't, it was always better to be prepared and remove the tempting excuses.

"Just stay the night," she looked momentarily taken aback by her words, and narrowed her eyes at the tankard in her hand like it was responsible for making her tongue release them without first clueing in her mind. It probably was to blame, but she frowned and stuck with it. "Celebrate, now that world is not in immediate danger."

"What's this? The great Seeker telling me to take some time for myself?" he laughed delightedly, "But pandemonium!"

"Avoid it," she advised dryly.

Harry took a gulp of that horrible, watery ale just to occupy his hands. They'd get a head start, but oh what the hell, he liked a challenge. "I suppose… tonight the magisters will just be patting themselves on the back like they had a hand in saving the world."

She smiled victoriously and he was struck, as he often was, by how much prettier people became when they were happy.

"But this is my last drink," he declared.

It wasn't.

It _would've_ been, but then the Iron Bull started toasting everything and Sera challenged him and then something about arrows?

It wasn't his second last, and probably not his third last, because he lost count and he could count past three even while plastered. So there.

He passed out at some point. Or maybe he retired? He knew he made it to his bed, at any rate, because that was where he woke up when Anders started shaking him.

"Harry! Get up, we're under attack!"

"Wha'?" he heard 'get up' and realised it was a horrible nightmare. There was a wretched clanging in his head that had him completely at a loss. It couldn't be a hangover, mainly because at most a few hours had passed and he was buzzed enough to be sure he was still fairly inebriated.

"What's going on?"

"Don't you hear the alarm? An army is almost upon us," Anders repeated.

That explained the bells. Harry squinted. Anders looked frazzled; his eyes wide, cheeks flushed and hair showing signs of having had hands rubbed vigorously through it but Amell wasn't here, so panic it was.

"Ah fuck." He jumped, stumbled. Amour. Where was armour? Attacking armies necessitated armour.

"You're still dressed, come on!" the mage took him by the hand and bodily dragged him from the cabin.

Harry suspected that Anders knew him too well.

The taller mage led the way, pushing past the running blur of people. Harry just tried the keep his feet under him and pay attention. They were headed for the gates, he thought.

He was right; the wooden doors were flanked by soldiers but open, and Anders sent them both barrelling through.

Cullen; sword drawn, Lavellan; wary but composed and armed with a blade that frankly looked too big to wield, a mage; Tevinter robes with more buckles than Harry would've known what to do with, and a teenager; so pale under his huge hat that Harry was sure he was imagining things. Behind them, the mountain was lit by countless torches.

"We're here to help, to warn you," a painfully young voice was saying. "An army of rebel mages, an army of Templars. They don't care who they hurt."

The mage wiped sweat off his forehead, depending on his staff to hold most of his weight. He mostly just panted. "Yes, exactly. What he said."

Cullen was stunned. "Mages _and_ Templars?"

They're mortal enemies until they want to take over the world together. Harry sighed. That was just so _typical_.

"The woman is Calpernia, leader of the Venatori, and now your rebel mages," the mage turned, pointed to a rise.

He was joined by the boy, "The Red Templars went to the Elder One. He's very angry. You closed his Breach, he's not waiting anymore."

"That's Samson," Cullen said with surprise at the third figure on the rise. Harry couldn't take his eyes off the second; the stretched, misshapen being that looked a bit like a giant bowtruckle in a dress.

Anders gripped Harry's wrist tighter.

"Good, we know most of what we're dealing with." The Herald, as always, got to the point. "Plan, Cullen. Now."

They were facing the combined might of the Templar Order, zealous mages and Merlin knew what else, with a small force of green recruits, most of them on a spectrum from drunk to passed out. Their most powerful players had just had their energy drained to plug a hole in the sky, and of those, many had left for other parts of Thedas.

Harry didn't say they were doomed aloud, they had enough voices wailing already.

"Haven is no fortress. If they reach the walls the town is all but lost, and we have nowhere to fall back to. The mountains box us in."

As Cullen summarised, it was not much to work with.

There was a crack of apparition from behind; the enemy mages had a line of sight into the town. Harry growled. Arseholes. But he hadn't shared _all_ his secrets. The Elder Wand fell into his hand with an air of finality.

"Tell our mages not to apparate to any place in this valley, Commander, it's about to become fatal."

He sat himself down and tuned out the world, with the Wand cushioned between his hands. He wasn't aware of time passing until he opened his eyes and noticed the scene had changed; The Herald was gone, Cullen was shouting orders, Anders hovered anxiously by his side, Buckles had sunk down in an exhausted heap against the gates.

The next Venatori hit their destination with a satisfying pop and explosion of gore. A veritable bug on a zapper.

A patchwork blue shield became visible, radiating outward from the impact point, for a few seconds. It caught Cullen's attention, he marched over. "Potter, are there any other protections you can give us?"

The front lines were halfway down the valley. "Not in time," he shook his head.

"Then we need to evacuate the villagers into the Chantry," Cullen informed them, and Harry managed a nod.

Then Anders was there with a hand, knowing Harry's limits better than he did himself. He levered the wizard upright and braced him against his shoulder. Harry spat out a feather and sent a bombarda in the general direction of the rise with the three creepers, for luck.

"Just like old times," Anders murmured, stubble scratching Harry's forehead as he spoke.

"Shame Sirius went to put his little one to bed. We could use a horde of unstoppable griffons right now." Harry said without conviction; he preferred Sirius home, safe.

"You could do it."

Harry grinned tiredly. "I don't think I've got anything as big as a griffon left in me." But a tried and tested method where one could become an endless supply was worth the cost.

Harry rolled the Wand between his fingers thoughtfully. Scary flying animals. The first thing that came to mind were pixies – nasty, spiteful little buggers.

Alcohol was bad for choices.

Hippogriff, thestral, occamy, cockatrice, strix, phoenix, roc, Australian magpie. A scattered combination of too much collateral damage and too complex.

 _Giant, man-eating owl it is,_ Harry forced his tired, drunk and disorderly mind to focus. Conjugation was too easy to get horribly wrong, and he wouldn't be able to try more than once.

The strix coalesced in front of him. Its head nearly sat level with his own, its eyes were luminous gold and far too big. Tufts that appeared to be ears or horns above its eyes gave it a severe expression. The feathers were sleek and black; it would've been hard to distinguish from the night if not for the torches throwing flickering patterns on it.

Before he could sic it on their quickly approaching enemies, there was one crucial step: " _Geminio_."

He smiled in satisfaction, even as his overtaxed system made its grievances known. Conjured things are literally pulled from nothing. You multiply nothing, you still have nothing. There was no extra effort required, even as one owl clawed a Templar, became two, became four. Each owl would last a few minutes at most, but until there was a shortage of enemies to hound and scare the bejeebers out of, that wouldn't be a problem.

"Ta-da." Harry found it necessary to invoke a bit of self denial because there was no way he could accept he sounded _that_ pitiful.

"You know, it's just not as impressive the second time," Anders mused brightly.

"Aren't you hard to please," the wizard glared. "How do I top griffons, hmm? Dragons?"

"Weeell," Anders drew out with a shrug and a light grin that brought Harry abruptly back to another battlefield, where his friend was ten years younger and happier.

He shook the feeling off. The owls would thin the enemy ranks, maybe buy them more time, but they would not keep the armies from reaching Haven.

They approached the gate, where a guard cowered (understandable) and Buckles rested, looking both disturbed and fascinated. Harry longed to join him. A great ache inside him weighed him down, his body felt like mush, his head swam. The mage looked somewhat familiar, from up close, and the curiosity was enough of a distraction for Harry to focus past his nausea.

Harry offered his hand but instead of shaking, he grabbed Buckles by the wrist and added him to the train of exhausted mages. "Hello, I'm Harry Potter. Come along, unless you'd prefer to stay."

"Dorian Pavus, thanks kindly. I did not race all this way to die on the doorstep." And now Harry was being softly mocked by the son of a distant acquaintance. Great.

By unanimous decision, at the sight of the burning town they broke into a run. A painful, hobbled run, but a faster pace nonetheless. With Anders freezing the Venatori who'd apparated earlier and Pavus's barrier sheltering them, Harry siphoned the fire of the nearest building and hurled it back at the approaching army. Pavus ducked in, dragged out an elderly man and they were off to the next one.

Overhead, an owl dropped its cargo, letting the red Templar shatter on the ground. Harry winced. Bodies were not meant to break that way, it was unnatural.

Fight, shield, fire, repeat. They herded terrified people before them. The masses wouldn't stand a chance if the enemy caught them in the streets; the soldiers couldn't fight through the crowds, the civilians couldn't dodge. This panic would look benign in comparison to what would erupt.

And then Cullen was there, shouting in his big Commander voice. He brought order and it was the greatest magic trick Harry had seen in some time.

The town was cleared, the fires put out.

Harry gasped for breath. His reactions were dulled, his decision making compromised to say the least, and there was too much at stake. His friends, old and new; to think he risked losing them now, _again_ …

Focus. That was what he needed most.

A glint caught his eye – red shards hurtled towards him in a wide arc, reflecting the light. Harry leapt back, dodging most by luck, the rest were deflected by an angry splutter of his magic. They blasted into a building.

Red Templars and the Venatori had reached the walls, and skipped over them without a cursory glance.

Lightning took care of the first. The smoking corpse fell to reveal some… _thing._ It was as tall as a qunari but crooked and toting a misshapen mass of bone and crystal all over its torso.

"What in Andraste's holy horror stories _is_ that?" It had a face – a human face, human eyes that glowed a hateful red. It could have once been a man, but it roared like a beast and charged.

It was upon them in seconds, moving with a speed Harry would've thought impossible for a creature that lopsided. One moment it was at the walls, the next their position was overwhelmed. And there was more where that came from.

Harry ducked a slashed of claws once his brain engaged, rolled a little clumsily, and came up with his daggers. His hands remembered the grip but his feet fell into a light stance awkwardly. He probably should have kept in practice; he half expected Zevran to materialise and skewer him for letting his cushy job make him soft.

Enemies poured in from all sides; enemy mages hung back and rained spell fire on them and that was not an insignificant problem, but there was little that could be done to rectify it because barrelling toward them were all manner of lyrium monsters, erratic Templars and soldiers in Tevinter's god-awful pointy hats.

A coordinated resistance was off the table. Anders and Dorian resorted to using staves as bludgeons, spears, and desperate shields. Their movements took a desperate turn, purely defensive and clumsy with fear against the relentless close assault. It was all any of them could do to stay alive. They knew it was only a matter of time; they'd _accepted_ it.

That was _not_ on.

Harry lashed out and his blade sank deep into the monster's unguarded shoulder. It howled, but the wound merely opened muscle, too far from anything vital. Not ideal, but amendable. He twisted, the blade hummed in his palm and a cutting curse reverberated through the metal, through flesh, and even through a little dirt on the other end.

He pushed himself faster, further, and managed to ducked behind the next to sever its spine. He grinned; much more efficient.

"Anyone have lyrium?" Pavus called, manoeuvring himself into a break long enough to light the battlefield on fire, and yes, thank you they'd _just_ put those out. "If you're saving it for a rainy day, _now_ would be a good time."

Anders answered with a grunt, "Not carrying any." If there was any left, it would be in the Chantry.

A normal(er), pain in the ass kind of Templar in too large armour made easy pickings. Harry went for the weak spots, but he blocked a hit and his eyes widened in surprise; it was like catching a kick from a horse.

His arms were numb from his wrists to his elbows, but from there a tingling pain started to take over. "Expelliarmus!"

The longsword was flung backwards, over the Templar's helm and into a cluster of enemies. The man gave a startled yell and stumbled nicely into Harry's reach. He tried not to catch a gauntlet in the face, aware his pretty nose wouldn't take that well.

The battle haze descended, brightening the world in all its sensations: highlighting the glint of an incoming blade or the perfect place to sheath his own, the tell-tale roar of a monster or a spell. He wasn't aware of his frenzied breathing or shaking limbs; he wouldn't until the fatigue got bad enough to throw off his aim more than the drink already had.

He fired a blasting curse through the blades; the nearest pair of Venatori went flying, rubble rained down a second later, giving him some room. He crossed the area – cutting curse, cutting blades, then Anders was clear to fire on the mages – and kept going.

Pavus occupied a creature that required his full attention, which was problematic enough even without a Venatori trying to flank him, mace raised and ready to hit too-light armour.

Yellow light brought the soldier to the ground laughing uncontrollably. Harry gutted him as he stepped over the body, headed for the monster.

Pavus encased its legs in ice, rooting it nicely for Harry to duck under a swing and deal a blow to its back. Before he could there was a faint whistle on the wind and a shadow plucked the prone monster from the field. The legs remained behind.

That might've been the first strix to harass enemies within the walls, but that soon changed.

There was a grunt from behind; Harry turned to see Pavus step between him and a Templar, heaving against a sword that bit into the wooden staff shaft. It wouldn't take much more abuse. The blade shaved a layer as it slid until it hit a metal stud and the combatants parted. Pavus spun away with a flourish that buried the blade of his staff in the man's gut. His next attack melted the helm into the soldier's face.

Harry soon received the opportunity to return the favour, shielding them both behind a _protego_ , returning a blast of ice to the caster.

It wasn't long after that he stopped keeping track.

They cleared the area, breathed, moved higher into the city and engaged the next lot. They gathered backup as they went; Inquisition soldiers and desperate people who'd armed themselves with crude weapons and prayers.

A dark shadowed swooped low, releasing a grating screeched that chilled his bones more effectively than the cold ever had: the owl dove, talons outstretched, and slammed a Templar into the ground. Harry blinked and two leapt into the sky, leaving punctured, crushed armour and the broken body within it behind.

They were winning. The Inquisition soldiers cheered and it could be heard above the screams of pain and anger; enemies fell more quickly, more often under their bolstered numbers. The flow was slowing, and –

There was a mighty rumble, starting with the air and trembling in the ground. Snow slid from the mountain tops and thundered down, gathering momentum. It funnelled downhill, the force of it sweeping the valley clean of trees and enemies alike.

Several of the strix had perched on roofs to scan the town balefully, but they took off with a call of alarm at the noise. Their creepy effect was washed out by the triumphant cheer.

Harry smiled at Anders and received a weary laugh in reply. "Avalanche. Unconventional, but appreciated."

A moment of peace, but a second roar shattered the air. This one didn't sound like the mountain dropping its load; it was far too primal for that. Harry shifted his grip, saw one of the trebuchets in the distance go up in fire and smoke, and an enormous silhouette passed overhead with the speed and sound of a fighter jet.

It started raining dragon fire.

"Oh _come on_!"


	8. Retreat

"Fall back!" Cullen was the first to recover. He was in motion, gesturing with his sword, eyes on the sky, before most could pick up their jaws. "Everyone, into the Chantry! Now!" He dodged a wave of the deep red flames, but many weren't so lucky.

Harry did not ask questions; he propelled Anders in the right direction and lunged for Pavus. Smoke burned their lungs. Between the acid clogging the night, the people running in the confusing flickers of torchlight and the burning homes, it was impossible to see.

Harry threw his hands forward, summoning a gust to clear the air. It allowed some measure of visibility. It also fanned the flames, sending homes blazing, but really, at this point the town was lost, and they could use the extra lighting.

The townspeople clamoured to get into the Chantry. Cullen raced for the gates, a few soldiers on his heels. The Herald was out there, somewhere.

Above, a different battle raged. The strix rallied; the horde of owls dived from the cloud cover and descended on the low flying dragon, colliding in a confusing mass of dark feathers and scales. They screeched, clawing at eyes and leathery wings and scrabbling ineffectively against its hide.

Clearly furious to anyone with ears, the dragon twisted within the churning ball. The swirling black mass lit up from within, the fire punched a hole through the legion. The flames destroyed swathes of owls instantly.

It was futile, but each breath of flame that hit the owls didn't hit the town, each time the dragon threw them off, roaring in irritation, it wasn't taking its anger out on the people below.

The soldiers kept the doors open on Cullen's orders, far longer than anyone else dared. Then Lavellan, Cassandra, Varric and Solas appeared, looking at little worse for wear but alive, and the doors sealed behind them.

Pinned down by an army, a dragon… Harry turned his gaze around the Chantry and it didn't resemble a church any longer, it looked like a mausoleum.

Josephine worked her organising magic, people huddled underground in the cells and in barricaded rooms. Dishearteningly few soldiers stood between them, swords and heads hanging low with despair.

Harry should really reinforce that ceiling so it didn't entomb them all, but each breath ached, his vision was beginning to blur around the edges, and his hand was locked around Pavus's shoulder and he didn't know if he could release it. He felt almost concussed. The other mage didn't appear to care, if he was even conscious enough to notice. Pavus led them to a corner and slumped against the wall.

Anders spotted them and hurried over, twisting his hands in distress. This must be maddening for him, Harry realised. He'd built a life as a healer out of above average skill and an extraordinary amount of compassion, and that feeling didn't go away when he was suddenly unable to help.

Despite it all, the tension bled out of Harry's frame. Now that they'd paused, the adrenaline was wearing thin. He'd never felt so boneless and keyed up at once. It was rest, at least. It might've felt like a respite, but the noise didn't let them forget: the screeches, the bangs, the crying. Harry winced at every slap of heavy wings.

"How're you feeling?" Anders asked, and that was strange; he usually skipped straight to the diagnosis and healing.

"Suddenly, painfully sober." Ha. He _wished_. His mind was whirring, but he could still feel the effect of the alcohol on his limbs. He was a bit numb. Maybe it was shock. The entire night felt a bit like a hallucination. Because, really. He just had his magic pulled out of him in a crazy ritual to plug a metaphysical hole in the sky, then two armies too many appeared out of bloody nowhere and now a Blighted _dragon_ wanted to roost here?

Harry jumped when Anders pushed his jacket off him, exposing his shoulders and arms. Harry quirked an eyebrow questioningly and pretended to have been paying attention.

The fur was matted with his blood. The healer tsked, laying a hand on a deep cut he'd acquired when an axe skated off his scale-plated forearms.

"Ow," Harry called by reflex, more surprised than anything else. It stung, now that he noticed it.

Anders' hand lit up with blue light and the cut sealed – not completely, but enough to stop the bleeding. He turned to patch up Pavus, next. The mage smirked and flirted, trying to brush it off, but he was too tired to fully conceal from anyone how taken aback he was by the kindness.

Leliana was speaking with Blackwall nearby. They were not subtle.

"Was that an Archdemon?" she demanded.

The warrior looked shaken, "It appeared to be. But that doesn't make any _sense_. I don't rightly know."

"Could this be a Blight?"

He shook his head; either resigned or confused. "That doesn't explain why the Wardens up and vanished, or the crazy cultists at our doorstep instead of a horde. Half of us here remember the last Blight, and this is nothing like that."

Harry did _not_ want to listen to this. He needed five _\- just five_ minutes without more problems piling up, thanks. He got to his feet, shrugged his clothes back into place (sticky and sweaty, just lovely) and crossed to where Cullen stood.

"Commander, do we have any lyrium?"

The blond man levelled him with a stare. "A few vials," he allowed, and led the way to a chest. Five little vials. So much for that. Harry alone would need three for it to make much of a difference.

He handed them out; Vivienne, Solas, Pavus, and he pressed the last two into Anders' chest when he refused the first offer. "Take them." The owls had stopped screeching. "We're going to need a healer."

…

"They really don't like your Herald." There was that pale boy again. Harry had forgotten about him. He was supporting a grumpy cleric.

There was talk of burying Haven and everyone in it, some sort of last ditched attempt to rid the world of the threat. If they were nearing that point, Harry knew it was time to apparate his friends out of there, whether they came willingly or not.

"Giving up, are we?" Pavus snorted, his nose scrunched in disgust. "No, by all means, decide on our behalf that sacrifice is the way we want to go. We're all in this together, as my father would bury me alive for saying."

Cullen and the Herald glowered in unison. It was perhaps a touch too soon to use black humour to combine magister mentality and avalanche jokes.

The boy startled Harry. Again. "No, there is a way out. Chancellor Roderick wants to speak."

Then there was talk of secret paths and escape, and it all came together into a brave and stupid plan that still sounded a lot like sacrifice.

"Oh for Merlin's sake, let me! I'm the immortal one."

"It's not you he wants." Lavellan made a good point. That was probably why the advisors ignored Harry entirely.

"Keep the Elder One's attention until we're above the treeline," Cullen ordered, mouth a harsh line. He didn't think Lavellan would make it back either.

"What am I? Chopped liver?"

"You're not coming, Potter," Lavellan sighed. "We're going after the trebuchet, not the dragon. If that lizard goes after the townspeople, they'll need your help."

Harry wasn't in any shape to put up much of a fight. Still, he could be really aggravating if he put his mind to it, but that was now a moot point. The Boss was not changing her mind.

"I know," he said dryly, "I'm going to make you fireproof, but you can walk away stoically if you want. Anything for the heroic image, right? I'll be hurt, but I'd understand."

The only sure way to be fireproof was to brew a good potion or charm some dragonhide, but that was so far from being an option that it wasn't even worth considering. The flame-freezing charm, however, was a different story. Its use in medieval witch burnings made it all the more fitting, really.

"This will last for half a minute of sustained fire – no more," he warned. It wasn't the most reliable, but metal conducts heat like nothing else, so it was really much better than nothing.

He added strengthening and lightning runes to her armour. They were crude, and so not terribly useful. He ignored her pointed looks and cut runes in her vambraces to help her strike truer and faster.

Lastly, Harry summoned the Invisibility Cloak and hoped it didn't return to his side too soon. "This thing is mostly spell proof and when you put the hood up, you can't be seen. The dragon will still smell you, but it should help you fight through to the trebuchet. I want this back, you realise."

There was a fierce look in her eyes. "I'll hand it to you myself."

"I'm holding you to that," he agreed more solemnly than he'd been aiming for. He swallowed thickly, gripped her arm tighter.

This was supposed to be her day. She'd given up everything she was to fix their problems, and instead of freeing her from that burden, they condemned her to this.

Word spread and eyes were falling on them, mouths open with awe and pity. Harry knew that look. Up against odds so indomitable that she might as well already be dead, they looked at her like a martyr.

The whole Saviour shtick _sucked_.

"You're going to get her there?" Harry asked, spotting Solas, Bull and Blackwall - well, he wouldn't say gathering themselves because the Qunari looked eager and Solas appeared entirely unconcerned, but their intent was obvious. "Hold a moment." He gestured for their armour.

…

It was brutal going and dark clouds were rolling in with promise. The path was snowed over, they only risked a few meagre torches to light their way. There was a fine balance between having visibility and being visible: on one hand they risked losing people in the gloom, on the other they might accidentally flag down a dragon. To make matters worse, they wouldn't know exactly where that line was until they gave away the surprise.

At least navigating wasn't an issue – they just had to keep going up. The Chancellor tried to point them towards a pass over the mountains, but for the moment it was just up through snow. Damp snow, hard snow, deep snow, more snow.

A layer of ice had formed during the night temperatures; it posed enough resistance to make it heavy, backbreaking work to push through, but not enough to support the weight of a person. It sucked at their heels, concealed rocks and holes under every high, slippery step.

Hovering over all of them was the knowledge that time could not be spared. An avalanche was coming, and that could spell the end for them. Harry didn't think Lavellan would pull the trigger early, no, more likely, as the Herald occupied the enemy _just a little longer_ , their tardiness would result in the trebuchet never firing at all. It would doom her, and with armies fresh on their trail, they'd soon follow suit.

What an all round miserable prognosis. Needless to say, Harry didn't want that.

Harry worked his way up the line – calves burning, back aching, Merlin, why did walking _hurt_ so much? – casting feather-weight charms on heavy armour and the few bundles of supplies they'd held onto. He couldn't recall ever being more exhausted.

He spared warming charms for the few people that sat down and didn't want to get back up. It wasn't enough to revive some of them. The first was a young man, young enough that Harry regretted he'd ever had to fight. He had burns to half his body and could barely move from the pain.

Harry, with a quiet " _mobilicorpus,"_ levitated him. His magic twinged, straining to comply. The young man wasn't the last. They had too few mounts and many people too injured to even ride. Harry gathered them behind him in a morbid string. He grit his teeth against the sounds of their suffering and tried not to look back.

When the signal went up, Harry jumped. He'd scarcely noticed that the trees had thinned, gradually falling behind.

Cullen waited warily at the head, scanning the sky. His furred shoulders relaxed noticeably when, after a few tense seconds, the trebuchet fired. His frown eased almost entirely when the plan worked: the avalanche covered their escape, and the dragon didn't even show up to ruin things.

The Commander deemed it safe enough. "We rest here for an hour."

They were high above the valley where the town used to be, but the mountains still loomed over them. Without the trees, Harry could see the peaks reflecting dully in the moonlight. The distance was not comforting in the slightest.

Townspeople came to take the injured off his hands, grateful and wary. Harry barely noticed. Priorities changed; he cared about their lives, nothing more. Their comfort or issues with him registered just as well as the cold biting his sweaty skin: noticeable, but hardly noteworthy.

Anders was still on his feet, dealing with hurt patents and panicking children, handing out the strength to walk like he was born to do it, with a single-minded dedication.

The crazy bastard.

Harry admired him. From a distance. More or less where he'd stopped walking, in fact. He only made enough effort to settle himself comfortably into the snow behind a nearby bronto. It made an effective shelter against the wind, which was so much more noticeable away from the cover of the forest.

"Nice spot. Don't mind me," Pavus slumped down beside him, bearing food. That officially sealed his place in Harry's good graces. Because fighting beside someone wasn't enough - Harry had saved and been saved by plenty of people he couldn't stand - but care, company and good cheer? That was the ticket.

The wizard's mouth watered. "My hero." The dried meat was just what he needed. He may have moaned a little. "You did good work back there, but this! This is above and beyond the call of duty."

Pavus - no, Dorian - smirked. "Is that how you thank someone for saving your neck?"

"I was working up to flowers and a parade," Harry assured solemnly.

"Bit gaudy, but for this far south I suppose it'll do."

Harry snorted. They shared a grin.

By mutual agreement, they let silence settle between them. It wasn't from lack of curiosity or willingness, far from it - the two simply understood that any proper conversation would be more enjoyable to partake in when both parties had enough energy to think and breathe simultaneously.

Besides, it was nice; the silence almost peaceful, for a time. But the weather set in and that was the end of that.

The wind tossed his hair, flicking it into his eyes with stinging force and riddling it with flakes that soon melted and trickled under his robes.

"So how're you liking Ferelden so far?" Harry raised his voice so his bitter mood could be discerned from the bitter cold, never mind that he and Dorian were huddle so close they could see each other turning blue.

The altus glared. "I have half a mind to let the south hang and live out the rest of my days, perfectly miserable, in a decent climate."

Harry smiled. Dorian hadn't left yet, though he'd rested enough that surely he could apparate by now. That counted for something.

"You should see it in the summer," Harry continued, cheered slightly. "That's when it _rains_."

Dorian became mouthier as the temperature dropped. The mage nursed a flame between them in his hands, for lack of wood, but it became more difficult to maintain as the wind worsened.

"Oh, they're alive," Dorian looked over Harry's shoulder. "Colour me surprised."

Harry turned more quickly than his ribs approved of. Three figures approached through the gloom. There should have been four. The smallest was missing.

Their voices were carried past the mages in the gale. Cullen weaved his way around miserable people. "Where's the Herald?"

"She sent us ahead. We barely escaped the landslide. Since then…" Blackwall drifted off.

"She did not follow," Solas finished bluntly, looking back down the path often enough to call it a twitch. Harry knew that look, and though Solas didn't wear it well, seeming too harsh and removed, that was the look of a man who wanted to overturn the town, by hand if necessary, and would have already if he didn't think it futile.

Something ached in his chest, and it was part sympathy, part shared. Harry called the Wand and it materialised on his palm.

Dorian started.

"Rine Lavellan revelio." The wood twitched, and that was all he needed to know. He shifted his grip to a more active one, and stood with a grin. "Bloody heroes," he muttered with relief, perfectly aware of the irony.

Yelling would do no good, but Harry was perfectly fine with marching over there, buoyed up with energy and hope. "She's alive!"

Solas' eyes scoured his face as if it were a trick, too good to be true. Then he turned back downhill with renewed vigour.

Cullen looked torn. "We must get to shelter before this storm gets any worse."

People had been known to survive worse than avalanches. But no one could survive buried under a mountain load of snow for long. She was alive, yes, but in what condition? The list of very likely hazards was practically endless: suffocation, sustained injuries, freezing, anything from wolves to archdemons now, apparently.

Cullen realised the chances of her remaining alive were low, and just as likely to doom anyone sent out after her. "Anyone who stays out here will freeze to death."

Well that sounded painful and likely. Harry cleared his throat, "I'll walk it off."

"You'll never find us again in this weather." It was a token resistance, spoken to prepare rather than dissuade. Even the most pragmatic couldn't ignore this chance.

"Keep them alive for me, Solas." And that was at once a plea to stay, and an unspoken promise: I'll bring her back to you.

He moved a distance from the camp, until the strange flickering lights weren't a distraction. His plan would be hard enough.

"Expecto patronum," and that hurt. It burned so bright and happy, it was a struggle not to let that pain overwhelm him and make that bright blue deer vanish. But the rest and the hope had done him good. He had enough fight left in him. "Find Lavellan, Prongs. Lead me to her."

Changing into a stag was easy in comparison.

The key concept therein being the relativity.

As a deer he struggled to maintain focus. His magic – the very thing that keep his human mind in charge – was a distant thing. The paradigm shift fixated on survival: get out of the cold, get away from people. He was tempted by every instinct to let all the pain from the human just sink down, flow away until the world was simple again.

A familiar trumpet echoed through the trees. It invoked a strange, calm feeling in Harry that he couldn't quite identify. Unbidden, the hart weaved through the trees, heading unerringly for the smaller red deer, shaking himself free of the last clinging packs of supplies as he quickly approached.

If Harry was at all reasonable, he would have hightailed it with a prayer, because there was only one way a clash between the stag and oversized elk could end. But he found he couldn't move, he was rooted in place by the same part of him that was entirely unsurprised when the hart bowed. Harry stood straighter, the hart averted its gaze.

The moment was broken when Prongs flickered, drawing their attention, and the patronus bolted lightly over the snow. Both deer snorted in alarm and ran to stay with it, because nothing meant safety like the feeling of happiness.

They moved quickly, four long legs having a much easier time with the snow. That said, going downhill was still a trial of jumping and barely controlled skids. The hart stayed behind him, a loyal shadow.

It was less heart wrenching when they joined the trail of freshly churned snow. Without the icy crust to test their footing, they moved even faster.

Prongs drew ahead once, twice, and for a few tense minutes Harry's eyes would roll wildly until the patronus returned to adjust his heading.

He smelt fire and wolves. They were too close for comfort and closing. He bayed angrily, and ploughed right on ahead. The hart stepped up his protective game, running agitated circles around the smaller deer when the pace slowed.

Harry sunk to his chest in a snow drift and lurched to a halt. He scrambled for purchase, nothing solid beneath him, narrow legs gaining no purchase on the snow. But his frantic movements dug him deeper and his hooves grazed the ground, to little effect. Somewhere a wolf howled.

His ears lay back. He didn't like this.

Prongs bounded to his side. The translucent deer nuzzled his fur and spread tingling warmth while guiding him to the left, to higher ground. The hart's strong intervention was responsible any actually forward progress.

The storm was heading into full blizzard territory when Prongs disappeared for good. Harry reached the spot a few seconds later. There was a familiar woman waist deep in snow, clutching her side in pain but moving doggedly forward. With that, his reservations vanished. His powerful legs pushed forward to meet her. He stretched his head up to hers in greeting, taking in her familiar scent. It was almost overpowered by blood. It was in her hair, her stomach, her back.

Blood meant danger. He stomped a foot, ears flicking nervously, but they didn't pick up anything besides the wind.

"Falon," she whispered with surprise. The word, though it should have been unfamiliar, was easy to interpret. The more conscious human part of Harry's mind decided that was probably due to some elvish animal and nature thing. He didn't care.

Harry barked and the hart, until then vigilantly guarding the pair, trotted over and lay down. Lavellan blinked, swaying unsteadily. Too slow. Harry eyed the woods warily, hounding her with his antlers until she got the message. He was just the right size to push her around and help her scramble up the mountain of elk. Her light weight settled on the hart's back, she huddled down and wrapped a cloak around herself. The elk heaved upward, mindful not to throw her off.

Harry saw her shivers, heard her pained noises. The herd needed to be safe, they would be together, with the rest. They started back up the mountain.

It wasn't long before the blizzard developed into a white blanket over Harry's eyes and ears. There was no Prongs to guide him, his nose was a shoddy substitute. The snow didn't hold scents well and the air was moving too fast, biting and cold.

When he paused, uncertain, the hart carefully stepped up beside him. Harry froze as the heavy weight of its head settled against his, a comforting rumble running through them both.

Faith.

It was an annoyingly persistent sort of responsibility to live up to. It was almost human, and that made it grounding.

Harry kept going up, veering towards the strong acrid signs of fire when they surfaced. Fighting unhelpful instincts was slightly easier than it had been.

At the first camp, the ashes were cold. There wasn't another fire scent for a long time. The air got thinner, the winds harsher, until a formation in the mountain sheltered them for the worst of it and his senses came flooding back. There was nothing to hear, nothing but snow and mountain peaks on either side, but plenty to smell.

Many people, some animals, lots of sickness and blood.

The snow was thinner, he moved into a canter. The hart kept up easily and Lavellan didn't groan at the pace that time, and to the deer that felt too much like the unnatural quiet before an attack.

The scents suddenly became fresh, and irregular sounds audible. Harry reached a rise and looked down on the camp in the pass. He could smell Anders, now.

The snow was hard packed, icy to the extreme. Deep too; Harry sunk to his chest in places and snorted uncomfortably. Sounds rose up as he approached and he panicked a little; he felt they were good, but he was pinned on all sides by snow.

The snow was sturdier at the bottom of the small hill, but that only allowed them to run at him faster. Too loud, reaching toward them. Several men smelled familiar: blond with a slight hint of bear, horned and somehow unique, earthy dwarf. They were almost drowned out by the number of new people.

Harry didn't like it _at all_. Stomping, glaring, he lowered his antlers.

The threat fazed them, (as well it should), but only momentarily, it would seem. Several circled behind him, aiming for the hart; that was _not_ trustworthy.

Anders was close by, but where? He was definitely dependable, the only one the stag wanted to see. He charged, head down, and the nameless people scrambled to get out of his way. They followed double time when the giant elk galloped after him.

The tents were closely packed around a few resilient pines, intertwined with ropes that made excellent tangling hazards. The ground, though mostly free from snow, was still frozen and slippery. He bayed in frustration, almost losing his footing and careering into a pile of supplies.

It was not the ideal habitat for deer.

The faltering pace allowed people to trail closely. He could see them running, hear their yelling, but he was more excited than afraid – there was a tent, ahead, it smelt very strongly of his friend.

He barked demandingly, pawing at the fabric, looking for the way in.

"Harry!" Anders emerged suddenly, and dodged with a curse. The antlers nearly took out an eye or two. Harry turned his head with difficulty, but his antlers caught on the tent to his side, so his happy greeting came out a little strained.

"Maker's breath, settle down," he hissed, squeezing into the very full isle. His hands soothed Harry's shoulders.

At the touch, the hart snorted warningly, lowing even more sharp points into the corridor. He crowded closer, doing his best to cause a scuffle but lacking the manoeuverability to really put up a fuss. Anders was less than pleased.

"Maker's breath, with the trials you put me through, I should be the next prophet. If your friend ruins my feathers I'll replace them with his antlers, don't think I won't." The mage ducked away and was kicked by something less cloven than he was expecting. "What - Herald!"

Anders reached for Lavellan. Luckily, the hart was much happier to find himself between Harry and the man, and didn't attack him for the transgression. Through the elk's legs, the stag watched Anders coax her fingers to release and carry her inside.

More people reached them, then squeezed into the tent under Harry's shrewd watch. There was a pained cry, and he forced his head past the flaps, concerned.

"Get your long face out of here!"

Harry snorted, but stepped back. Then he went further. He wasn't needed, and with that pressure removed, he found himself quite unable to put up with the crowd.

The hart shadowed him still, and that would have baffled Harry if he weren't so grateful for the steady company. He knew the change usually came now that the four-legged role was done, but change meant the cold, the pain, and the empty numb gap in place of his magic would be so much more noticeable.

He was just going to sleep, it wasn't as if it mattered where and how he did that. Really. And if anyone suggested otherwise he'd sic a half tonne herbivore on them; anything else seemed like too much effort. He really could not keep on his feet much longer.

Harry moved to the edge of the camp and lay down under the low branches of a pine. He closed his eyes, ignoring his follower's proportionally large thump and the awkward shuffling that moved half the tree, because that level of ridiculousness was pushing it.

Harry tried for stoic dignity when the confused stable hands tried to sort out the loose animals in their midst. The hart was even less receptive to their coaxing. (From the swearing alone, Harry suspected that was going to require treatment).

They were mostly left alone, afterward, what with people far more focused on singing and sleeping. Harry dozed until an elf that had the bearing of a much bigger predator stopped a respectable distance away. Then his head shot up quick smart. The hart, though disturbed by Harry's movement, remained strangely unconcerned.

"Thank you," was all that was said.

Harry flicked his ears in acknowledgement.


	9. A deer old time

“Call it off! Harry!”

His body reacted before his mind, responding to the panicked shout by falling into a battle stance.

 _Falling_ was the key part of proceedings, unfortunately.

Expecting two legs, Harry found himself dealing with four. With that slight misalignment of reflexes and reality, coordination, naturally, did not pull through very well.

By the time awareness filtered through the low level panic, he was slanted past the point of no return and transfigured somewhere on a spectrum of deer to human.

“Ugh,” he groaned, face down in icy dirt, legs back where expected but too late to matter. “Never sleeping in animagus form again.”

A shadow fell over him. Harry looked up. Anders and the hart were locked in a strange dance, the aim of which seemed to be some form of permanent damage.

They woke him up to mediate _this_? “Oh for crying out loud.”

“Potter! Don’t you dare go back to sleep.” Anders tried to dodge closer, but the hart barred the way quickly and harried him back. Anders fended off the clearly bewildered animal with zaps that grew in strength alongside his annoyance. This going to end with a coma, Harry could feel it.

“Cut it out!”

Naturally, this was not very effective. Anders caught a glancing blow to his shoulder, sending him sprawling. He was immediately crowded with antlers, pushed into the snow. “He started it!”

Harry smelt burning hair and the hart jerked back. He whistled loudly, before the hart could retaliate. Ears flicked in his direction, there was a thoughtful pause. For a moment it seemed to be over. The following kick seemed especially deliberate.

With a groan, Harry pulled himself up.

Anders strained against renewed antler pressure. “Oh suddenly you’re his best friend. His great protector. Well, you’re a little late to the scene!” Ah, so he’d finally decided his position had been overwhelmed and it was time to mouth off.

“Get off him,” Harry decided to get right down to business and lead with elbows, shoving at the hart’s flank. It shot him a wounded look. Harry rolled his eyes, “You mustn’t kill him, it’ll just vindicate his tortured soul. Come on, move.”

The hart stomped a hoof and eyed them suspiciously. The earth remained unmoved, just like his resolve. It was nice and symbolic.

Harry tried to force more distance between them. He was having just as much luck moving the rest of the mountain backwards. “He’s my friend, you horny mule. If you kill him I’ll just have to replace him with someone worse. And it won’t be you.”

The elk settled down, sort of. It crowded Harry instead, and seemed dead set on staying between them, but no one was getting trampled. So the corny approach worked. Bollocks.

Anders scrambled up. “ _Just_ a friend,” he snarked. “Sheesh, no need to get jealous.”

Harry glared, and decided he was not responsible for any damage incurred under his watch.

But with hilariously bad timing, the hart, suspecting he had slipped from their foremost attention, dropped his head over Harry’s shoulder and tugged him back, almost knocking him off his feet and into the giant animal’s chest. A possessive and protective move if there ever was one.  

Anders snorted, eyes alight with unholy glee. “You have got to be joking.”

“Coincidence!” Harry spluttered, trying to escape the determined hold. “He’s an animal.”

“Seems to understand you just fine. You saying that’s where intelligence stops? Nope, not buying it.”

Anders brushed himself down with great dignity. Snow was plastered to every surface, his hair had come loose and half the feathers on his robes were bent. Oh there would be hell to pay for that.

Harry glared at hart. “This is your fault. He’s going to be insufferable now.” Harry hoped he was imagining the hopeful glint in its eye. “That was not blanket permission to maul him,” he added, just in case Anders was onto something.

“Anyway, I was supposed to fetch you with some sort of urgency. Let’s go before they get their holy knickers in a twist,” cheerfully, Anders pat his back. “I suppose your minder will be coming along.”

The hart did indeed refuse to stay behind. That got some raised eyebrows, but didn’t do much to lighten the mood. The advisors and Herald sat under the central tarp with Cassandra, Varric and Solas, and between them they wouldn’t have had enough cheer to kick a puppy.

Harry sighed. “What do you need?”

Varric grimaced. “We have the name and face of our bad guy. Corypheus. Causer of Breaches, leader of armies and cults, ancient Tevinter magister, original darkspawn and beginner of Blights – the whole deal.”

“Come again.” Harry twitched. No one had a resume like that. It was ridiculous.

But the dwarf wasn’t done. “Hawke and I fought him before. Long story short, we won thoroughly. I consider myself something of an expert at watching other people with big swords hack at things until they stop twitching. He was definitely dead.”

“Well that’s not good,” Harry muttered, because sometimes swearing just falls short. Ancient, undying, well why they’d requested his presence suddenly became clear. “You want me to figure out how he’s doing it, I suppose.”

“That will be the first step to ending him permanently, yes,” Lavellan confirmed.

“One immortal to another.” Harry rolled his eyes. He didn’t bother reminding them that he’d spent several decades trying to answer the question of his own continued existence, to no avail. His experience still had to count for something. “Right.”

Solas tilted his head. “Do you have any ideas?”

There were probably endless ways to extend lifespans, animate dead things and what have you, but bargin bin rituals and cheap knockoff immortality only went so far: if Corypheus had died and recovered, no elixir or spell could account for that.

“Recovering from death is not trivial. Or easy to reverse engineer,” Harry added sourly. “But at least it narrows our options.”

He tapped his chin. Corypheus could be like Harry, like Voldemort, or like something else entirely.

He started with the easiest; the most likely. “Corypheus could be using the ill-advised art of manipulating your own soul, cutting it and moving it into objects and such.”

They looked appalled.

“And that’s the _best_ case scenario,” Harry laughed, grimly. “His immortality would only be as insurmountable as the protections he could place on his vessel. The tricky bit is locating it. Or them.”

“What kind of vessel are we talking about?” Cullen wondered.

“Oh, anything at all. As long as it’s solid, there’s no limit to what a soul will latch onto.”

“And here I thought blood magic was the worst thing I’d hear about today.”

Harry snorted. “Option two: functioning immortality. This is where the conditions and loopholes are unknown. That would be bad on a Blights-before-the-Grey-Wardens level. Maybe Corypheus gained immortality through an artefact, a title, an accomplishment. You’re going to want every spare brain working on this one. It took a century or more to figured out the weirdly specific conditions necessary for the archdemon to stay dead.”

All eyes were already on him, but their expressions took on an expectant hopefulness, as if he should have all the answers.

He had none. There was a high chance that only one person held them all, and that particular darkspawn magister megalomaniac wasn’t talking. Harry braced himself for a long morning.

They adjourned hours later, when the camp was preparing to move on, having achieved nothing except missing breakfast. And still, Harry was not free. Solas lurked. He revealed his intention with a polite cough and a serious look. “Just a moment, Harry.”

Harry shuddered away an uneasy feeling, but he followed Solas around the people breaking camp, to a hitching post. He watched the horses paw the snow for grass, expectantly.

“Corypheus is using an ancient elvhen orb to amplify his power,” Solas said, and petted a curious mare who came sniffing for food.

Harry’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I hope Lavellan, at the very least, knows this?”

“She is the only other.”

“Alright then.” Consider his morbid curiosity ignited. “Could it be extending his life?”

“No.”

Solas’s poker face was brilliant. Almost like facing up against a blank wall. There wasn’t a sign of it in his expression but Harry knew he was deeply worried. That Harry could tell at all was slightly disconcerting; he distinctly remembered being as emotionally perceptive as the average log, but maybe he was projecting his own sense of doom unreasonably.

“Okay,” Harry drawled, resting his weight against the post without thinking. It wiggled alarmingly, and his heart jumped. Graceful. He cleared his throat, Solas remained mute and amused. The conversation probably required Harry’s participation to move along. He wasn’t feeling up for it. “Then…?”

“We would do well to recover the orb. Corypheus unlocked its power, but that same advantage could easily be turned to our side. Not to mention, it would be fascinating to study,” Solas summarised, as close to passionate as he seemed capable of.

Harry snorted. That elf and history, honestly. “What kind of power are we talking about?” he wondered. “City levelling? Earth shaking?”

“I’m sure I can’t imagine what it would be capable of, in the wrong hands. But the Fade tells a story of several more, and their last bearers were looked to as gods.”

Ah so it was like a wand or staff but seemingly greater than any before, a weapon as bad as the hand that held it. Harry could definitely see the sense in getting it away from a conspiring darkspawn god-to-be as quickly as possible.

“All right, I don’t see why not,” Harry agreed. Some of the tension in the elf’s thin frame relaxed.

He nodded distractedly as Solas left. It briefly occurred to him to be curious about the knowledge source, the need for secrecy; but Solas was often strange about the Fade and ancient culture, and this problem seemed to be an uncomfortable blend of both. No, the bigger issue was turning around in his mind; how to get it.

But Harry once stolen an egg from a nesting dragon. If this orb came with an additional army for protection, well, what was life without a little challenge?

…

By lunchtime the hart had 'defended' harry from three friends and one unwelcome conversation, which in itself wasn’t such a bad return. It was the other side effect Harry wasn’t keen on, and it was approaching, grinning in advance.

Harry’s heart filled with dread.

“He’s still following you,” Anders said in lieu of a greeting.

Dark brown fur was a constant presence in Harry’s peripherals. He grit his teeth and muttered sarcastically, “No, really?”

“You could say, he's _fawn_ ing over you,” Anders beamed.

Harry mustered his most unimpressed look. “That’s awful. You should be ashamed.”

…

They were chasing a dream that may not be more than a crumbling pile of stones by now. It involved a lot of walking. It was easier and more pleasant after some sleep and a nice song, but it was still walking. Up mountains. In the snow. With _children_.

The scouts explored the paths, feeling out the safest, easier route through the snow and rocks, while Lavellan spent as much time ‘leading’ the procession as possible, for fear of the alternative. When she ventured back, the Inquisition swarmed her as if her miraculous knack for survival was contagious.

It amused Harry to no end.

“Troubled?” he asked her innocently, as she headed his way trying to look busy. The hart echoed him, baying welcomingly. He tried to ignore it.

“I can feel eyes on me, like a hungry wolf is stalking – oh, and the Mother Giselle is heading over right now.” She was clearly a master of deadpan. Harry’s respect for her grew. “Quick, look serious.”

He tried his best, but lingering amusement saw him fail to meet her exacting standards. “We have no idea what Corypheus is going to do next. Discuss.”

Well that crushed the cheer right out of him. Which no doubt was her intention. “You want me to guess?”

“You’re an immortal, crazy mage, recently of Tevinter. I want your insight.”

“So you assume I can sympathise with the bad side. You know, I did the hero/villain gig and I was actually in _your_ shoes, not his.”

She stared ahead calmly, it was very disarming. “Is that so. I’ve heard you’ve been in both.”

He felt the sting. He’d been a politician rather than a cult leader, and a pretty bad one, but; “Touché. Still, this is a conversation you should have with Leliana.”

“Probably,” she agreed distractedly, peering over his shoulder. “The Mother is leaving.”

Lavellan’s shoulders relaxed imperceptibly and they walked together for the rest of the morning, silently and peacefully.

She startled him when she said, “Ma serannas.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied automatically. “Wait, what for?”

She looked at him strangely. “I’m told you brought me back.”

He smiled, and felt far more charitable all of a sudden. “Actually, you probably owe your annoying hart an apple for doing the heavy lifting.”

“He does deserve a treat. His favourite, even.” she agreed, and her smile took a teasing turn. “Give him a hug for me.”

They were all getting too much amusement from his plight. He did not pout (much). “Oh so that’s how it is. I thought you’d be on my side. But now that you’re no longer dying, so much for ‘falon’, right?”

Her ears reddened. “I said that aloud? Forgive me. Our gods are said to have taken many shapes, when they still roamed. And then you appeared in form of deer I’d never seen. I thought you a delusion, at best, though assuming Falon’Din had returned was a little optimistic.”

Harry blinked. He did not see that coming. “Well I was going to tease you about mistaking me for a friend, but confusing me with a god is much more flattering.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “How did you know the literal translation?”

“Must’ve read it in a book.” he shrugged. It wouldn’t surprise him; he’d picked up quite a bit a Latin and Greek the same way.

She hummed thoughtfully. “Do you know what Banal'ras means?”

“Yes?” Harry raised a brow.

Lavellan lay a hand on the hart’s flank pointedly. “You can stop calling him ‘it’.”

“No! Don’t _name_ him, he’ll never leave!” Harry despaired. And then froze. “Wait, Banal’ras? Hey, what did I ever do to you?”

She smiled benignly. Like a tumour.

…

When Harry (plus one) had sauntered up to Dorian, bored out of his mind, and stated that they needed to have a proper conversation, this wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

Dorian looked him up and down with something akin to despair. “I hoped the animal coat had been a mistake in the rush of battle. Maker knows none of us were looking our best last night. Now I see it’s a permanent character flaw; the barbarians got to you.”

A guffaw was startled out of him. “What?”

“Skins and furs. Honestly, did Tevinter teach you nothing? Is it so easy to revert to primitive ways, is this my future?”

“Ah, that depends on your tolerance to freezing,” Harry noticed Dorian’s exposed shoulder was prickled with cold. “You’ll get used to the smell.”

The Altus wrinkled his nose. “I think you’ll find my tolerance is boundless.” He shivered. “Boundless, but not silent. Fasta vass, but this climate is _miserable_.”

Harry laughed.

People had been eyeing them already, but seeing them together cackling unseemly was stretching their good faith a little. Whispering, concerned looks, and the nudges to the soldiers increased.

Dorian gave a nearby woman a jaunty wave, causing her to shriek. He rolled his eyes and groaned, “One magister decides he wants to rule the world, and then suddenly whenever two Tevinter mages want to chat, it’s a conspiracy.”

Harry let the altus work up steam sympathetically. It was hard for natives to be confronted by outsider perceptions of their country. Somewhat understandable, though, since due to Tevinter’s disastrous foreign policy of indifference the only ambassadors were the megalomaniacs who cared enough about restoring the empire to bother making the trip.

“What do they think we do all day! Hold evil mage meetings and pass our names around the circle?”

“Actually that’s a fair enough description of the politics,” Harry interjected, posing thoughtfully.

Dorian covered an inelegant snort with a quick hand. They shared a fond grin. Harry thought it was a crying shame that they’d never met before.

“Speaking of politics,” Dorian collected his composure artfully. “How in the world did you get permission to engage a foreign army?”

Harry winced. He’d been trying not to think about that. “I didn’t.”

“Oh dear.” The mage’s concern seemed genuine, and Harry defrosted a few degrees.

“Yep.” He was in trouble. Closing the Breach was something he could sell as world security, and Tevinter security by extension, but fighting in a foreign battle for his own means… well, the excuse of happening to be in the wrong place at the wrong time wouldn’t fly when he’d personally introduced apparation to the world.

“Once we find somewhere to settle I’ll head back, sort it out.” He still didn’t know how to talk his way around it. It felt like he’d exhausted all his options, hence the stalling tactics.

It ached, now, to talk with Dorian. He reminded Harry of the better side of Tevinter that the rest of the world never saw; the buried, authentic heart. And that was something he could lose the privilege to be a part of, something he might have already doomed himself to give up.

…

The hart lowered his antlers and bayed a territorial warning. The footsteps barely hesitated at the threat, by now.

Harry groaned and prayed for patience.  

Anders stepped around antlers, eying the sharp appendages warily. “You and your Banal'ras make quite a pair, but his rack is far more impressive than yours.”

“I kind of hate you. I just want you to know that.”

“Oh buck up.”

A flat look was all Harry could spare for that pathetic effort. “You are dead to me.”

There was a blessed pause. Harry half thought it was over, but as if in slow motion, an unholy shit eating grin formed, the moment another awful pun dawned. “Oh _deer_ , how will I ever recov- ow!”

…

After a night on the cold ground, waking up was an ordeal sweetened only by dirt flavoured porridge. And then the trek continued.

The morning, once again, ushered in bad news. Or the state of the cuisine summoned it. Either way, Leliana was the messenger, so it couldn’t be inconsequential.

“Herald, my team has uncovered a problem.”

“Just what we needed. Go on.”

“My scouts brought down a Templar rogue. He was working alone, caught up to us around midnight. No word as to how he got so far from the main army.”

Harry surveyed the battered Inquisition. They walked on a off camber slope, fairly low on the narrow pass, and half the party were separated by a ridge. It was a shit place for a fight, though not half bad for an ambush. At least the hills couldn’t be hiding an army; there really wasn’t room for that.

Lavellan took in the information and seemed to know what to do with it. Harry supposed defending caravans from dickheads was a Dalish speciality. “Alert the soldiers, set a perimeter. Get the children in any shelter we’ve got. Herd the animals into the centre, get some big men on the reins.”

“It would not be wise to incite panic unnecessarily, at this point. My scouts can handle this more discretely.”

Lavellan straightened, managing to look bigger than the human woman. “We don’t take risks on the road. Get everyone closer together.”

Not ten minutes later, the screaming started. A war party appear over horizon, which by nature of the terrain meant they were practically upon the leaders and approaching from several directions. The main band charged down the slope, covered by mage fire from the slopes above.

Harry spun, apparating in front of the villagers. He crouched and shook his head to chase away the disorientation. He could hear the armour sliding on leather under the pound of boots.

Ten metres. Five.

“Aguamenti. Glacius.” A thick layer of smooth ice formed on the slope beneath their boots. Moving as one, twenty soldiers fell head over arse and slid off the side of the mountain. A pair with exceptional reflexes managed to get a grip and required a bit of a push. Oh well, Harry needed to get the ice out of the road at some point anyway. “Bombarda!”

It was their own fault for picking such a shit spot to fight.

By the time he stood, the flanking venatori and sneaky lyrium monsters had been taken care of. The Bull was enjoying himself far too much, standing over the remaining pieces victoriously. Everyone else had wisely cleared the arena. It was over so fast Varric hadn’t even gotten a shot in, if his apologies to Bianca were any indication.

“How did they find us?” Cullen demanded.

Harry shrugged. “Corypheus has got the numbers and time to do whatever he wants. A group of mages could search this entire mountain range in hours, and side-along backup.”  

“So we should expect this to be a regular thing, now.” The commander sighed.

“That’d seems a safe bet.”

“You hear that, Bianca? There’s always next time.”

The next time wasn’t as neat nor easy. Neither was the time after, or the time after that. The paths got wider, the trees provided thicker cover. The battalions could get bigger and closer, to say nothing for the individual suicidal idiots who would appear in the middle of Inquisition and let loose with fireballs.

They lost horses and precious supplies to panic, too many scouts to ambushes, and civilians to all of the above. It was slowing their progress, it was annoying and damaging, and not so great for moral.

Harry couldn’t set perimeter spells or wards while they were moving, but camping for the night provided a small respite. Harry had to think three steps ahead, layering spell upon spell in a perilous knot, to stop people and spells and poisons and grenades. The first watch became a satisfying duty, as one got to see their harassers die trying to break through the protections. At least until the Templars figured out how to bring it all down. The pricks.

…

Harry’s dreams had him tossing all night, rubbing his poor hips into the unforgiving ground with every restless movement. It started with giant owls in the burning buildings of the town they’d left behind, but then he started to see his reflection in the flames. The flickering smoothed out like water until the giant owls were standing on excessively large mirrors. It felt like the empty surfaces were staring at him. They unnerved him even more than the strix, who actually looked a little paternal; it reminded him of how Hedwig used to watch him, and at that thought the black owl turned into Hedwig, and then the green curse was flying and it couldn’t miss her. Her feathers dripped red.

Harry blamed the snow. It was terrible to sleep on. It was just as hard and impossibly lumpy as rock, but at least stone didn’t condense through the tent and any padding and clothes, then freeze all material to the ground by morning.

Oh, yeah, and it was cold.

Just a little further, Solas had said. Harry could survive that long.

…

He wasn’t going to make it.

Harry had hoped he would be too busy to be bored, but in the interludes between chaos, he had too much time to think. Or just worry, as the case may be.

He needed action, not dead ends, but without a way to start gathering the information, he couldn’t even begin unpuzzling lyrium, or Corypheus’s immortality, or how to get his arse out of hot water with the Tevinter Senate. Or the right etiquette when mirror calling a godfather to basically say: ‘Still alive! Sorry I forgot to tell you for a few days, hope you didn’t notice and freak out’. (Harry felt that might need to be followed up in person).

A distraction was in order, but his usual go-to source wasn’t being very obliging.

“Is it customary for you to punish the people around you when you are bored?” Solas complained, a slight bite to his tone.

Harry ignored it gleefully. “Yes, snark-master. Teach me something, please. Bestow your wit and charm, or maybe talk about that orb some more.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” There was definitely an undercurrent of amusement, there.

“Oh come on!” petulantly, Harry kicked up a bit of snow. “Let’s have a story at least.”

Out of nowhere, Solas gave a put-upon sigh that did nothing to mask a tiny, indecipherable grin. “Fine.”

Harry bit back his surprise. He’d expected it to take a lot more needling, maybe some blackmail. But then he noticed Lavellan was looking over curiously, and Solas was very determinedly not staring at her.

Ah. Harry fought to school his grin before the male elf noticed. So Solas was playing nice for ulterior motives (and probably several more that Harry couldn’t fathom, the wizard was willing to bet).

“What do you know of the elven pantheon?”

“Not much. Their names have come up a few times,” Harry said with a shrug.

“It is said that the most powerful, Elgar’nan All-Father and Mythal, the great protector, had two children under their care; Dirthamen and his twin soul, Falon’Din. The two were inseparable, they had a bond like none other in existence.

They were the brightest and lightest of the gods. Dirthamen was known for his hope. He was drawn inexorably to the innocent love Falon’Din bestowed on all things. They were perfectly complimentary, far better together than they were apart.

But they became separated when they found an elder deer without the strength to move. She desired rest, and Falon’Din kindly obliged her. He carried her deep into the Fade where she gave up her earthly body for freedom of soul. Dirthamen could not follow along the path that opened to Falon’Din, but neither noticed until it was too late. Lost and alone, Dirthamen struggled. But he knew that his brother was well and loved him, and that allowed him to conquer his greatest weaknesses; fear, rage and grief.

A pair of ravens were drawn to his strength and astute mind. They showed him the hidden paths and led him to Falon’Din, who despaired without his brother.

From then on, Dirthamen became renowned for his knowledge and love of secrets, and he could follow Falon’Din, who spared one hand for the dying souls and the other for his brother. They brightened the world together.”

Solas finished with a small shrug. “Those were the innocent years. The rest include a fair bit of blood, unfortunately. Would you like to hear about how Mythal rallied the other gods against Falon’Din when he started wars to collect more worshipers, envious of the attention paid to others?”

“That’s not the way they tell it in the clans,” Lavellan furrowed her brows. Solas couldn’t pretend not to be hanging onto her slightest reactions, then.

“I am not surprised. Every clan has a slightly different tale, all distorted by time. The Fade remembers, however, if one knows where to look,” he imparted.

“Do spirits keep history?” the Herald wondered, guiltless eyes a match for any defences.

Solas gave a small, impressed smile. “Some do. Spirits of wisdom in particular. They have marvellous tales, and they are often closer to the original than one can expect in the Fade.”

Harry slowed and fell behind, with no desire to be anywhere near Solas’s weird flirting. He looked around for someone else who was alone and unarmed, that might be persuaded to entertain him.

…

Harry felt it before he saw it. An ancient energy had seeped into the air and rock, charging it like a thunderstorm. It was stirred by their footsteps and set his hair on end.

Reaching Skyhold felt like coming home.

…

Translations

Banal'ras: shadow

Falon: friend

Falon'Din: friend of the dead


	10. Hold the fort

There was something to be said for the tendency of magic to seep into stone. Skyhold was like Hogwarts’s sleepy, more mature cousin. She was powerful and ancient, but she didn’t find it amusing to move the stairs out from underfoot.

The power was less innocent, less simply pure. Instead it contained a more complex combination of disillusion and pragmatism, testament to the people that once lived there. (Somehow Harry suspected they hadn’t been as mischievous as the average child set loose with a wand.)

But it wasn’t cruel, so with pressing business to organise and letters to send, Harry trusted the castle not to drop a beam on his head and ventured inside to find a level surface to write on.

…

Mould and lichen fell away. The wall took on a less disturbing lean, loose stones straightened, rough edges smoothed out. Mortar flowed from a bucket and into the newly cleaned cracks in the wall. Progress moved in a wave around the satisfied conductor in the centre.

“Couldn’t your skills be put to better use elsewhere?” Cassandra stepped over a broom waging war on centuries of dust, unimpressed. “The carpenters can handle it.”

Harry shrugged. “They’re busy. And it’d take them longer. And we really need this passage opened if we want to start sleeping in actual beds.”

“You could be researching Corypheus.”

“I thought you had volunteers for that kind of torture?” his nose scrunched in distaste.

She scoffed, showing her impatience. “They _could_ use your help.”

“I’m not an academic. Never have been.”

“You were an enchanter,” she pointed out in her voice that reserved for dealing with his bullshit.  

“Due to practical skill far more than theoretical, I assure you. I couldn’t read a dry book to save a life.” Harry was very good at not learning more than he had to. Most of the things he knew, he only picked up I the first place because of experience reinforced under extreme duress. But hey, whatever makes the lessons stick.

“You’re intelligent,” she stubbornly insisted, dismissing his prior arguments entirely.

Harry rolled his eyes. “So are you, and you haven’t got your nose buried in a tome.” If her position by the Divine’s side wasn’t a dead giveaway, it was obvious after five minutes in her presence, that she had a mind like a steel trap. Anyone who though she was just a bruiser, with at most a few strategic designs, was just giving her a free pass to walk all over them.

Bookishness isn’t a sufficient measure of intelligence. Creativity and resourcefulness were unconventional perhaps, but more useful than knowledge in a pinch. Harry and Cassandra had that much in common. In their lines of work, one often ran afoul of situations that required quick thinking. Idiots didn’t last long.

“If we’re short on manpower, I’ll find people to do the research. If I know anything that might help, I’ll tell them. But if the answer is in a book I could be staring right at it and I’d still never find it,” Harry shrugged. He braced another beam in the ceiling while magic worked to reinforce the supports.

…

Technically, he was procrastinating. He really needed to get back to Tevinter as soon as possible but there was just so many important things to do here. Like ensuring Skyhold wouldn’t be occupied by Corypheus by the time he returned.

Which was no trivial feat.

The keep had fading protections, and Harry needed to know how they worked before he tried to layer more on top in potentially volatile combinations. But they weren’t wards, exactly, not in the sense that there were runes carved into an anchor, and therein lay the problem. Harry could learn alphabets and spells if someone held his feet to the fire, but that meant nothing when intuition was required.

Thankfully, this problem could be solved with proper application of Weasleys.

Harry hesitated before using the Resurrection Stone, recalling that last time the spirits of his past friends had been too solid and pained. The stone felt the same as it always did - slightly cold and lifeless.

Bill Weasley arrived normally enough, as if the mess with the breach had never happened. Which could have been either fortunate or unfortunate, because normal Bill tended to promote chaos. Especially when he encountered a new civilisation with unique cyphers and methodology.

There was a lot of exploring, strange metaphysical prodding, and of course there were explosions, in the dubious name of progress. Harry had run this gauntlet with Bill before, and he _still_ didn’t know if this was part of the process or if Bill was just enjoying spreading his influence in the living world.

But that didn’t explain why Bill required so, soooooo much _writing_.

Harry felt very much like a bewildered puppet. His orders seemed completely out of left field. Why, exactly, could they possibly need to climb into the pipes? And pop up into a strange room, and –

“Oh. Hello Solas.”

Their wide eyes met. Both magic users managed to look remarkably not caught out for people that certainly had been.

The silence was awkward. Harry cleared his throat loudly. “I suppose the fade taught you this, too?”

“Naturally. Many ancient buildings had rooms reserved for enchanted artefacts. I wished to see them for myself,” Solas said. His gaze and curiosity fell over Harry’s shoulder. “What is he? Not a true spirit or a shade.”

“You don’t think so? He’s a spirit of disorder and confusion, from the deep dark burrows of the Fade. You wouldn’t understand,” Harry declared loftily, in an irritating manner that Solas would hopefully find familiar.

After that they came to a silent agreement not to ask questions.

Solas patched up the damaged artefacts in silence. Once he knew how it worked, Bill designed a set of wards that the castle stone happily accepted.

…

And even though they had two armies on their trail and conditions were miserably cramped, dirty, sick, hungry and cold – the people were hopeful, to a downright _obnoxious_ level.

Harry understood the glow. Academically, at least. They were no longer sleeping on snow, so any individual that didn’t have to face reality in their day job could be happily oblivious to more abstract problems until they came knocking.

Cullen’s face was set in heavy lines as he stepped up the training. Josephine double checked numbers with concern. Leliana was never seen, but rumour said she still lurked. Cassandra clearly wanted to hit something, but setting up training dummies was a low priority and stabbing minions was bad for moral. The Herald was plainly sick of the constant arguments and uncomfortable under the responsibility that was piling up around her.

Yeah, time to go.

Harry still wore his armour, and it was showing evidence of the battle. It was scratched and scorched in too many places to count, and definitely not smelling its best. Wearing that to a diplomatic meeting –or at least what qualified by Tevinter standards– would be provocative beyond all common sense. If he presented himself to the Senate prepared for battle, he’d be asking for one.  

But it was that or nothing. His trunk was still in Haven. It’d probably perished in the fire, in which case his unmentionables were probably scattered far and wide and in several different dimensions, because undetectable extension charms tended to fail dramatically.

Unhelpful, that.

Traders would arrive eventually, but until then Skyhold would be lacking in the textile department. Even then, they probably wouldn’t carry anything in the Tevinter style that conveyed the level of grovelling that was socially appropriate.

He was already half doomed. At this point, he’d be lucky if he didn’t get a fighting ovation right out of the country.

…

Cassandra was overseeing a crew reinforcing a side of the rotunda, unfortunately. He would’ve preferred to check in with Josephine, or even Leliana.

Ok, maybe not Leliana.

“I’m leaving for a few days,” he announced with a showy sigh. “In about a minute. No time for a decent send-off, I’m afraid.”

“Wait a moment,” she sounded suspicious, and Harry definitely should’ve spoken to someone else. Tracking down Cullen would’ve saved time. “Are we supposed to _trust_ that you will not give away our secrets, or our position?” the Seeker scoffed.

He decided that efficiency was the better part of valour and rolled on through. “You can tell me how much you missed me when I return.”

Her expression darkened and he didn’t stick around. He’d given them notice, time to postpone the consequences. He apparated.

…

Magister Tavius wasn’t in his study. Harry had hoped to spring everything on him with as little warning as possible. The old man technically owned his freedom, so Harry did not want him getting it in his head to wring the situation for all it was worth.

Tavius was lazy and disinterested most of the time, but he was still a Magister. Leave him to his own devices and he’d certainly tug the leash, as it were.

Harry found the man in the library, after a run in with a helpful assistant.

“Potter.” He did not look pleased. Bother. So much for getting belated permission. “You’ve been busy.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard some highly exaggerated stories, this far from the action.”

“Somehow I doubt they’re all that far removed from reality. Explain yourself. Think of it as practice,” he held up a crisp letter. Shit. That was fast. “The Archon has called for a panel to address your behaviour.”

“I must’ve missed my summons somewhere between here and Orlais,” he hedged, with a growing sense of dread.

Tavius’s expression did not change. “You’re not invited.”

Ah, so it was the kind of meeting that was just a formality. Joy.

…

They made him stew for two days, which gave the assassins plenty of time to work. It kept him on edge and rubbed in the frostiness of his welcome, but with only half a dozen attempts, he was afraid they didn’t consider him much of a threat anymore.

He was tempted to head back to Skyhold in the meantime, but he was grounded. There were spies on him at all times and they’d certainly blab to their masters if he put a foot wrong.

That meant no fighting, no social visits, no magic, early curfew, and no wandering away from the buildings directly around the Senate.

That left the baths and the Magisterium library. And there was only so many hours he could shrivel up in the steaming water before he felt guilty and bored enough to take desperate measures.

The stacks of books still smelt as musty as he’d tried to forget.

“Now, what was it Dorian was whinging about?” He hadn’t paid that much attention. Something about genealogy, Harry thought, for Corypheus presumably. The Liberalum, then. Boring.

In a section he’d visited two times too many, in the past, there was a gap as wide as Harry’s head where the giant book was supposed to be.

His curiosity raised its ugly head. If that dusty old thing was attracting attention, it may not be a dead lead after all. And if it had been removed for a different reason, it probably had something to hide.

Now that was more like it.

It wasn’t on hold and it hadn’t been shelved elsewhere. One distraction, an invisible walk and a bit of rifling through the head archivist’s private office later, and Harry found it.

But that was as far as he got, because his minders noticed he’d avoided their sights and took issue with that.

He startled them as innocently as possible, as if getting on their nerves had been the full extent of his plans. It was perhaps not one of his better ideas.

The afternoon dragged by. Harry patched up his shiny new knife wound, but with nothing to do, the mystery had free rein over his otherwise unoccupied mind. Curfew could not come soon enough. Giving the spies the slip was far easier in the dark, and getting back into the library unseen was child’s play.

“Never thought I’d miss an index,” he groused, but it was mostly half-hearted. Dusty tomes weren’t quite as dull when reading them was against the rules. This kind of illicit activity brought back fond memories.

He planted his head on his fist, his elbow on the table, and started flicking pages.

The threat of getting caught kept him alert at least, but the excitement faded when a quick perusal didn’t turn up anything obvious – like, for instance ‘Corypheus’ spelt out in nice bold letters. He didn’t have time to go in depth, nor the background knowledge to see any obscure connections. Besides, the book was written in Tevinter’s archaic Latin, and Harry was so bad at verb conjugations that he suspected he was inventing the story as he went along.

Disappointed, he went back to bed.

…

The Archon had a detailed report of the battle. It hadn’t diverged too far from the truth, which was certainly unhelpful. It didn’t paint Harry in the most flattering light.

Tavius stood as soon as Harry entered the room. The Archon and another pair of Magisters didn’t even grace him with their attention. They talked quietly among themselves, bored with proceedings. This would not take long, then.

“In the past months, you have acted as an agent to a foreign organisation. Your actions taken in their name are beyond small transgressions, far beyond what I can overlook.”

And plan C was a bust now, too.

“Word of your involvement has travelled far. Your allegiance is in question. You will stay here, and such distasteful rumours will fade,” Harry’s patron said levelly.

So they just wanted something to hold over him. He’d agree, ordinarily, because it was actually quite generous but the situation changed things.

Oh this was going to cost him big time. He bowed, acknowledging the offer, and cleared his throat. “Perhaps we can negotiate. I must return. Tevinter is directly implicit now that Corypheus has revealed himself, and outside opinion is bad enough already. The last thing we want is an invasion.”

Really, that would be messy for everyone.

Conversation stopped as the Archon raised a hand. He turned, grandly, eyebrow raised. “I will grant you a choice. Remain here, and use what you have learned in the South to close our rifts. Your citizenship will be withheld until you succeed. Or leave, and stop the Darkspawn upstart and be seen doing it. If you do not fail, you may return, and we will renegotiate the terms of your autonomy.”

That dark glint in his eyes was satisfaction.

Bloody politicians.

Harry bowed again, just a touch the wrong side of deferential. “Would his dragon’s head serve as an appropriate trophy?”

…

Not the result he’d been hoping for. He was on shaky ground. At best, he’d have a lot more kissing up to do. Probably a few more years of servitude to boot. He’d been so damn close to the ten-year deadline, too. Blast it all.

He didn’t have much more to lose. The ire of the most powerful librarian in Minrathous was nothing on top of his existing problems.

“Accio Liberalum!”

He left them a copy. He wasn’t heartless. But the original, well, maybe Dorian could make something of it.

He blocked a knife to back on his way out. How unoriginal. “Honestly, it’s like you’re not even trying.” The elf made his escape, Harry shaking his head.

And then the fire grenade went off.

…

Harry wanted nothing more than to pick a fight with someone and then return to his tent in Skyhold, kick out his numerous roommates, and brood. But he couldn’t leave without at least trying to get some useful information.

He apparated to the Amladaris estate and walked up the path. He hadn’t spoken to his ally recently; hopefully the Magister still fell in that category. He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but if things went badly he might get to tick his wish for blood and bruises off his list.

Irian greeted him enthusiastically, and the warm hug was a surprise, but Harry accepted the changed dynamics quickly.

“How did you lose the eyebrow?”

“What?”

…

Lunch laid out quickly on the table, and Irian’s wife and child were visiting their country house so the flirting was out in full force. Merlin. Politics and seduction were two sides of the same beast in this country, and he was getting heartily sick of it.

Amladaris clearly knew his advances weren’t well received; he was far too experienced for overconfidence. Which could only mean he was enjoying Harry’s irritation. Apparently time and distance hadn’t cured him of being an arse.

Harry zapped a wandering hand and felt much better.

“The Archon had a disturbingly accurate report of the battle,” Harry brought up, when he’d relaxed enough. The wine probably had something to do with it. He needed to drink more often.

Hopefully the rumour had just spread through the Venatori to the slightly more reputable Magisters, because the alternative was the Archon had a contact in the army, and Harry did not like the implications of that level of involvement.

“Yes, the informant is supposedly a double agent working under Calpernia.”

That left an unpleasant taste in Harry’s mouth. “Working for and against who, I wonder.”

“One can never be certain, with these things.”

At the first sickly sweet bite, he knew that dessert was blatantly seasoned with poison. Harry couldn’t blame Irian; it was the perfect balance for the strawberries. It would be impolite to mention it, and pointless besides: he’d suspected that might happen, he’d taken a bezoar in advance.

“Where does the Senate stand?”

Irian sighed. “No one is neutral anymore. Tilani and Pavus came down on our side, the rest are crowing with Gallus’s lot. Alexius is back, Erimond still hasn’t returned, and Urathus is coordinating something in Antiva.”

“Damn.” That was even worse than expected.

“They were impressed with how the Inquisition closed the Breach. Less so with how they managed to get their behinds thoroughly kicked afterwards. The Publicanium is with us, which of course means nothing. The Magisterium may be a lost cause at this point.”

Alarmed, Harry put down his gourmet poison, “I thought the Magisterium refused to officially endorse Corypheus? The Archon gave me the impression he wants the whole business to just die quietly.”

“It doesn’t matter what he wants. The extremists are gaining too much momentum, soon it’ll be bad enough that he’ll bow to their every whim or they’ll replace him. The dangerous talk has taken main stage in the Senate. Every debate nowadays revolves around it. They say we are already condemned; guilty by association.”

“The Inquisition –”

“A band of southern vagabonds hanging together on desperation and thinning luck. They want to be on the winning side. Morals matter less now than they ever did.” He slouched back, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “The world will only see a Tevinter at the helm and blame us anyway, even though the real culprit is one idiot from a long gone empire. Many believe we might as well align with the strongest power and come out on top. And since this thing claims to be a god… well. Well, it’s bleak at best. More pudding?”

That’s fucking depressing. “Have you got anything with a stronger dose?” Harry asked hopefully.

…

They strategized through the afternoon and as the sun began to set, Harry made to leave. The goodbyes drew out.

“Duty calls, but it’s been good to see you,” Harry said honestly. He had kind of missed the prick.

…

Near the main hall in Skyhold, bystanders heard two bangs. One was alien, the other the distinct sound of flesh meeting furniture.

“Which limp-dick shithead moved the bloody scaffolding!”

Harry was easy to find. And there were several groups of people looking for him, trying to get there first, but in the end it was Anders, recognising the vernacular, that honed in on his prone form. The mage immediately healed his mangled leg and dragged him into the war room.

Harry waved to Josephine as they marched through. She smiled that strained diplomat smile. “Welcome back, Harry. I’ll notify the others.”

Cullen and Dorian were already present, pouring over something in the Redcliffe area of the map.

“Nice table,” he admired the ancient wood. There were a few notable blemishes sticking out of it. “You know you can set paperweights to stop unsanctioned parchment movement, there’s no need to impale it.”

“You’re back? Oh I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you’d left,” Dorian grinned.

“And to think I brought a present for you.” Harry tsked, then unshrunk the slightly singed Liberalum and fostered it off to the other mage. “It should be punishment enough.”

Feeling like he’d lost fifty pounds, Harry rolled his shoulders. “Now, why the fuss?”

He noticed her presence just before Leliana spoke. “The Chantry received word that you and Anders were with the Inquisition. They’ve rallied, and they sent representatives.”

“I’m going back to Tevinter,” he deadpanned immediately. “Give me assassins over priests any day.”

He wished he could feel surprised, but they’d been relentless since the Blight. Their slightly more potent hatred of the Herald of Andraste could only shelter his presence for so long.

“Dear Giselle has been telling tales behind our backs,” Dorian revealed.

Harry signed. Yes, she’d seemed like the type to go beyond disapproving rudely and loudly in people’s faces. Roderick had been easy to ignore; that was all anyone else did with him anyway. But after the Mother and her entourage had turned up, just before the breech was closed, he knew it had been a matter of time.

“Why are they after your head?” Dorian asked with feigned indifference.

Harry ducked said head to examine his nails. “I’m more or less responsible for the Circle mages flying the coop, including a certain infamous Amell, as well as a Hope demon that became something of an abomination and slightly blew up Kirkwall. So they blame me for the civil war and everything they lost as a result of that – their control, the Divine, a bunch of shiny temples that got burnt down. I’m like their personal Arch demon darkspawn magister combo.”

Cullen, surprisingly, rolled his eyes. “The political situation was far more complicated than that. The tension did not spring out of nowhere in a few years.”

Surprised and bolstered by the unexpected support, Harry beamed. “I know! I was just a slightly tangential powder keg in a much bigger disaster.”

“Yes, agreed,” Lavellan and Cassandra marched in, slightly confused by lack of context but deciding that the description definitely fit.

“ _What_ are you talking about?” Cassandra was annoyed already.

“How Harry pissed off the Chantry enough that the Black Divine bid him welcome in Tevinter on principle,” Anders helpfully supplied.

“Ugh, the priests,” Lavellan realised with a groan. “I have been dealing with them all morning. If this is the reception you receive, I’m surprised you can go anywhere else.”

“It’s been worse. They used to have a Templar army,” Harry shrugged. It’d been safe enough to travel south since the civil war, they lost a significant amount of their bite. “The dogma is annoying, but I can deal with it.”

Lavellan snorted, and dryly informed him, “They’ve tried to incite a mob against you. Twice. Since this morning.”

Cassandra shook her head despairingly. “I have never seen them behave like this. They are beside themselves.”

He did tend to bring that out in people. “Do I still have wanted posters in Val Royeaux?”

“You do,” Leliana smirked. “Sera has one in her room. You don’t want to see what she drew on it.”

More to the point, Harry did not want to know how she knew that. “This isn’t going to blow over for a while, is it?”

“No.”

“I said we should kick them out,” Lavellan scowled. “But I’ve been loudly and repeatedly told that I can’t do that.”

Blasphemy. Dalish elf. Castle full of Andrastians. Fair enough.

“So, now what?”

“They demanded we had you over for justice. That isn’t going to happen,” Cullen stepped in. Reassuring. “The people have the real power. You have their favour for the effort you put into protecting Denerim and Haven, but the Chantry is working to change that. You can’t give them any more ammunition.”

“What more could they possibly need.”

Leliana ignored Harry’s muttering. “We’ve publicly rebuked the Chantry’s position on your role in the war, and most people believe us, for now. You can’t give them reason to believe you have anything to hide. Take no risks, work out in the open, no funny magic – don’t scare any of them. Just until we can move the priests along. Anders, keep your clinic running, they love you already.”

Harry groaned, and ran his hands down his face until he muttered into his palms. “Why can’t they just be grateful I’m on their side and endeavour not to offend me?” Public opinion had been easier to manage back when he’d scared people shitless.

…

Dorian lingered after everyone else had filed out of the room.

“So you resorted to Tevinter.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. No one picks gift wrapped slavery right off the bat. “The Chantry made damn sure nowhere in the south would welcome me.”

It wasn’t a hardship. At first he’d just being making the best of the bad, but Tevinter had some truly amazing sides. Really, the worst part was the elitism put Sirius off and his godfather didn’t visit often.

“I had wondered how you got indentured to an old fool like Tavius.”

“I needed a break. I attract a lot of the wrong kind of attention, and I had no citizenship rights; I was free game. Tavius and I, we had an understanding. He let me do whatever I wanted.” Mainly because the Magister tended to directly benefited from anything Harry did. In Tevinter’s eyes, Harry’s successes were Tavius’s. Since Harry’s magic was novel by default, and his extracurriculars usually had a taste of incredulity built in, you’d think he’d have enough good points in the bank for Tavius to ignore his recent indiscretions, but no. Tavius was happy to take credit for a hundred steps forward, but not one step back. Typical.

Harry scowled. “He’s decided this Inquisition thing reflects badly on his reputation. Now I just have to stop Corypheus, or rot.”

“Ah. Well, I’ll help of course,” Dorian replied carelessly.

Harry blinked. “Really?”

Covering himself in bluster, Dorian scoffed. “As if I could walk away after seeing what happened at Haven.” To break the uncomfortably sentimental moment, he added, “They’re opening the tavern tonight. I hear the alcohol is tragic.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Shall we?” He was still tipsy from Irian’s wine. He might manage to get good and drunk on their watered ale after all.

Dorian scrunched his nose and did a good job of feigning disgust.

…

“How was everything back home?”

“Falling to pieces.” Harry delivered the rest of the depressing news in bland monotone. Leliana probably expected him to file a report on that, come to think of it. Ah, bullocks. “Your friend, Felix, he made the biggest impression, but there’s been little progress since.”

Dorian looked proud and saddened. “He was the best of us.”

Harry raised his tankard in support.

“What did I miss on this side? I notice you refurbished several rooms.”

“Yes, we heard the impression it made on you.” Dorian grinned.

From the war room? Wow. “Moving on.”

Dorian indulged him, but if he didn’t wipe that smirk of his face, Harry would set his moustache on fire. “Trade is flowing. We now have food, though the quality is decidedly rustic, and rebuilding is coming along. That’s as far as the good news stretches.”

Harry waved him on, impatiently.

“They tried to get the Herald to take the reins. She didn’t take it well. She’d been planning to return to her clan once the breach was closed. As far as she’s concerned, she’s done.”

His cup was not deep enough for this. “Shit.”

“Did you know about her husband?”

“Caris? Of course.” Surely that was common knowledge, she was always talking about him. Then again, Dorian had only been around for a few days and they’d been very hectic ones, so he was excused. “He’s a hunter. He was supposed to be at the conclave, actually, but she took his place. Went behind a few backs to do it, I gather, since in pragmatic terms, she’s irreplaceable to her clan.”

She’d revealed a few things about herself in their brief conversations, and they came together now in an ugly picture in his mind. She was their head warrior; she basically ran the place; she hadn’t trained an apprentice. Harry hadn’t stopped to wonder how her clan might be fairing.

Dorian sighed. “The inner circle didn’t know. Or, well, Leliana might’ve, but they strung together the nice words and gave her a big sword and she turned them down flat.”

So she’d led the Inquisition this far because she was used to ordering people around and getting stuff done, not because she wanted to be a part of it. “Well that’s a fucked up situation anyway you look at it.”

“Because we need her?”

True, but not the point. “Because she can’t quit.”

…

She was on the roof. It was nice, the sun rising around them.

“So it’s your turn to tell me what is appropriate to sacrifice for the wider world?” Lavellan asked without turning away from the view.

Harry stifled a yawn and stumbled closer. “No, it’s your choice. We’ll deal with whichever one you make. They’re overdramatic, we can survive without you. Probably.”

“Fantastic, then leave me alone.”

“There’s something you need to know.” Gingerly, he sat beside her. “Corypheus will go after you.”

“He wanted the anchor. That’s why he came to Haven. But it’s useless to him now, he has no reason to keep bothering me.”

Harry wished it was that simple. Damn it, no one deserved this.

“He’s decided you’re in his way. Even if you're not interested in fighting, even if your name is dragged through the dirt and even your reputation doesn’t pose a real threat, he will still chase you. It doesn’t matter if it’s irrational or bad strategy. It’s what these maniacs do.” No one asked if he wanted to fight Voldemort. They turned up with a pedestal and dumped the responsibility on him, his only choice was to survive, and even that turned out to be a lie in the end. “That's how they recruit heroes. The choice is an illusion: make yourself a real threat and maybe survive, or give up and die. It fucking sucks.”

“You’re saying I need the Inquisition’s resources.”

Callous, but, well, when you look at it like that. “I know it’s not the life you want. Look, if you want to leave I’ll help you anyway I can. I can get your clan halfway across the world. There are some protective runes I can give you, spells I can teach your Keeper.”

Harry would try, for her sake, but he couldn’t see that route ending in anything but tragedy. There was nothing he could give them anything that would keep them safe forever. It only takes one lax moment, one mistake. Lavellan wasn’t stupid, she knew that already.

“I need to think about this.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my beta reader for making this story legible, and for the idea that provoked this weirdness:
> 
> A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…
> 
> A fair elf runs to a higher vantage point. He turns back, just a for a moment, to shout, “They’re taking the hobbits to Isengard!” But even he is not quick enough to dodge a large pewter cauldron and frayed trousers that materialise ahead of him, moving his way at quite a pace.
> 
> His enviable grace and pride takes permanent damage.


End file.
